“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Cissy,” he said. “Mike.”
The silence was too long to bode any good. She didn’t remember him. He started to depart again.
“Come in, Mike.”
He opened the back door and went in. It was so dark indoors and so cluttered, he couldn’t make sense of the place. He didn’t move, for he was afraid he’d stumble over something. All he could make out, by the filtered moonlight in the room, was Cissy sitting quietly on a straightbacked chair, looking through the window.
“You say it’s Mike?” she asked hesitatingly.
“Yes,” he responded. “You got any light in here, Cissy?”
“What?”
“Light—light.”
She didn’t seem to know what he was talking about. He reached into his pocket and struck a match. It burned out too soon. Then another and he saw the lantern. It was an old-fashioned camping light, powered by gasoline.
“It don’t work,” she said.
He shook it gently and heard there was fuel in it. He turned the little brass key, struck another match and lighted it. Poor thing, he thought, she doesn’t know how to do it. The gasoline sputtered in the wick, the light flickered and was none too good, but by it he saw that things were worse. The place was filthy and there was an offensive odor in the room. The remains of food, weeks old perhaps, cluttered the table. There were roaches on it.
And Cissy looked frightening. She had developed some disorder of the skin, the blotches were raw and wet. But there was still the reminder of her forgivingly sweet smile. “How are you, Mike?” she said, as though the fullness of remembering made up for everything.
“I’m fine, honey, just fine,” he said. “I brought you some groceries.”
“That’s nice,” she replied a little absently. “How’s Donna? How’s Laurie?”
She had never met Donna. As to Laurie, the child had died long before Mike had ever laid eyes on Cissy. She knew them only from having heard him talk of them. It was sometimes easier for her to remember people she had never known.
“They’re fine,” he said.
“Always say thank you when people ask,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Groceries, did you say?” Her voice was thinner than he remembered.
“Yes,” he said, pointing to the grocery bags. “Are you hungry? You want something?”
“No. No, thank you.”
The stench in the room was overpowering. He had no idea what it emanated from; he didn’t want to think it was from her.
“Do you have water here?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said cheerily. “Still got water.”
He wondered how to say it so as not to hurt her. “You have to wash, Cissy. Do you know that?” When she didn’t answer he continued quietly, as gently as he could. “You know that, don’t you, honey? Often—at least once a day. Do you know that?”
“Yes, Mike, I know that.”
She was saying it to please him, but she didn’t understand. He debated what to do, how much she was capable of doing for herself. Perhaps he would call the Welfare Department in the morning. Once before he had offered to do it for her and she was terrified. They would put her away. If only he could be sure it would be better for her . . .
He started to go. Just as he reached the door, her voice stopped him.
“Mike.”
“Yes, honey.”
“Can I do you somethin’?”
“What did you say?”
“Somethin’. Anything. I could go down on you, if you like.”
“No, that’s all right, Cissy,” he said. “I’m a little rushed right now.”
“Or I could lick your asshole,” she said delicately. “That might be nice for you. Did I ever do that for you?”
“Oh, yes,” he lied. “Last time I was here.”
“I did, huh?” He could see she was racking her brain to remember. Then she asked, “How was it—was it nice for you?”
Softly, as near to a lovemaking sound as he could manage, he said, “Honey, it was wonderful.”
He could see her smile, her hands in her lap were peaceful. “I’m glad,” she said.
When he got back into the car he couldn’t move. He couldn’t make himself leave, couldn’t let himself cry.
It’s happening as it did before, just after Laurie died. Inert. Immobilized.
Another lost year ahead of him? No. Somehow a man had to learn something from something. No.
But what, then?
With that final visit to Cissy—and he knew that when the welfare people took her away he would never see her again—the lost year was closed forever. And a terrible thought hit him: there was nothing to carry him over until tomorrow. Now that Donna was going to be married, he had very likely seen her for the last time. He had had only one letter from Rachel—there would never be another one. His medals, his trophies were sold, his locker empty, he would never go back to the arena again. He certainly would never again pound his foot on Laurie’s grave.
He had nothing to go back to. Even the past had deserted him. And the future? He’d give his soul to have something to look forward to—anything, anyone.
5
The panel truck Howard provided for the trip was a perfect choice. Although it was shiningly new it was inconspicuous in color, dark blue. Conservative, Howard said, like an old-fashioned blue serge suit. It was souped up higher than necessary, dual carburetion, extra power. Mike found it a pleasure to drive.
He pulled up, in the mist of a dawning day, to the entry point between Laredo and Nuevo Laredo. It was too early, he thought, for there to be any cars crossing the line, but there were indeed four ahead of him. Only one of the entry booths was open and the two uniformed Mexicans, the border official and the guard, were exactingly thorough. Mike hadn’t expected more than a routine pass-through but the guard was inspecting the cars carefully and the official was examining papers with a critical eye.
Mike settled back, waiting, secure that he carried no contraband, no guns, no narcotics, no diseased plants, no excessive amounts of film, tobacco or alcohol. And his papers would be found meticulously in order, for he had spent nearly a whole day making certain of them. There was only one thing, the little can of 3-IN-ONE Household Oil.
The other cars had passed and were going onto the bridge as the official beckoned him forward. “Tourist card, please,” he said in heavily accented English.
Mike started to give him all the papers at once but the man punctiliously selected only the top one, the tourist card. Before looking at it he gestured to the guard who shifted the annoyance of his rifle a little, then went to work, with quiet efficiency, inspecting the truck. He was polite about the inspection but there was nothing slipshod about it, no asking but there was nothing slipshod about it, no asking permission either, as he opened the right-hand door, looked in, examining everything, then moved to the back of the truck to open the rear doors. Yet, paradoxically, he didn’t bother opening the portable ice chest which had Coca-Cola and bottled spring water in it but which might have been full of heroin and hand grenades.
When the guard looked into the small metal toolbox Mike tightened a little. The man opened it and fingered nearly everything—the tools, the roll of electrical tape, the plastic container of nails, brads and screws and the little can of 3-IN-ONE Household Oil. Then he snapped the lid shut.
While the guard was performing his inspection, the border official was studying the rest of Mike’s papers. Driver’s license, truck registration, vehicle insurance policy, automobile permit.
Finally satisfied, the official stamped the tourist card and returned all the documents. “Your purpose in coming to Mexico?” he asked.
Mike was casual. “Vacation.”
The official looked at the businesslike truck. “B
acation?” But as he asked the question the guard caught his eye and tapped on the hood of the truck twice with the flat of his palm, a signal that the vehicle was okay. The border official smiled to Mike. “Have a good bacation.”
“Thanks.”
Mike had never been to Mexico except for a few gambling trips to crummy border towns and all he remembered of them was tequila and a puta house where a middleaged Mexican whore sang “Anchors Aweigh” and the room reeked of carbolic acid and cigar smoke.
Howard had warned him that the first stretch of the drive on the Pan-American Highway, down to Monterrey, would be hot and miserable, nothing but dreary flat plains and parching desert, and he would hate it. Howard was wrong. This stretch of horizonless desert, this wildness of nothing, exhilarated him, and the heat incinerated his cares and tensions into an ashless peace.
He had seen deserts before, had ridden stretches of them throughout the Southwest, and had come to accept the notion that they were vacuums between one town and another. But now, as he grew quieter in his mind, he became aware that the empty desert was not empty at all. His senses were awakened by the blur and blaze of a creosote bush, the poppies in the last scarlet scream of the spring just gone by, the quiet stretches of sage and the many kinds of cactus—cholla and prickly pear and melon thistle. He began to forget what his chore was going to be and to feel he was indeed going on a vacation in a warm, exotic land.
Then he heard a faint clatter somewhere in the truck. Something metallic, something wrong. He was a talented tinkerer, excellent with all sorts of tools, and he had a good ear for the life sounds of a car. But he couldn’t identify this one. He stopped twice, once to look under the hood while the motor was running, the second time to stare up under the dashboard, poking the sharp beam of a pen-sized flashlight into every crevice. When he finally found the source of the annoyance he was relieved at how trifling the trouble was. A piece of chrome stripping had come loose and was flapping against the clip of the metal sleeve that was supposed to secure it. It was a simple thing to fix. He got his tool kit out of the back of the truck, laid it on the ground, opened it and looked for the screwdriver. The repair took him only a few minutes. He tested his handiwork, tugged at it. It was tight, the clatter would be gone. He packed his tools back into the metal box, returned it to the rear of the truck. He started up and drove off in a pleasant silence, without hearing a hint of a rattle.
Then a deeper uneasiness came. He remembered that, while looking for the screwdriver, he had taken the 3-IN-ONE Oil can out of the toolbox, but couldn’t remember putting it back in. It wouldn’t have mattered—he could buy 3-IN-ONE Oil or its like in Mexico City—except that the little oil can contained chloroform. More accurately, it held a patented product called Acetoform, much less dangerous than the older anesthetic, yet capable of producing the same degree of insensibility. It had an added advantage: it could be mixed with an oil like 3-IN-ONE and be totally disguised. One of its uses was in horse doping; another was going to be kidnapping. As Mike drove farther from the place where he had last stopped, he became increasingly certain he had left the 3-IN-ONE can behind.
He stopped the truck, opened the back, took out the toolbox and looked. The oil can was not there.
It wasn’t serious. All he had to do was turn the truck around, go back to the place where he’d parked and find it. What gave the nuisance any significance was that he debated whether he should do so. He couldn’t avoid the feeling that leaving the can behind was no accident—he was purposely laying the groundwork for his failure.
The day between Howard’s visit to his apartment and Mike’s departure had gone by in such a flurry of busyness—checking the truck, getting the papers, selling his Porsche, closing his apartment—that he hadn’t had time to brood over the morality of the kidnapping. But now he realized he had better face his responsibility or he would not be able to see it through. He’d botch it, leave a trail of seemingly forgotten oil cans behind him. Get caught. It wasn’t too late for him to withdraw before committing an act that would plague him or get him thrown in jail.
But, damn it, he wasn’t doing anything so immoral or even so illegal. He was merely escorting the son to the father. Howard had shown him the divorce papers stating he had the right to have his son with him during two months of the boy’s vacation from school, an agreement Howard’s ex-wife had honored only in the breach. Not that Howard had made a great fuss about having the boy; still, he did have the right.
Then what was nagging at him? Something resembling chloroform. Something resembling adhesive tape that would be plastered on a boy’s mouth. Something resembling violence. To a child.
No, it would not be violence. He would see to that. That was the whole purpose of the Acetoform, to avoid violence, to put the child to sleep, bed him down in the back of the truck and, when he awakened, tell him that his father was waiting for him with welcoming arms up north, in Texas. The boy would certainly not resist going to see the father with whom, according to Howard, he had gotten on exceedingly well. Maybe the boy even missed his father.
No violence would come to the kid. He knew at least that much about himself. He would not, could not be cruel to a child.
It was only the external aspects of the kidnapping, he told himself—only the oil can, the adhesive tape, the paper with a diagram of the house the boy lived in—only the method was tainted. At worst, what he was doing was illegal, certainly not immoral.
I’m lying to myself, he said, I’m committing a foul.
Not a terrible one, another part of him answered, not terrible, not terrible. Nobody will get hurt.
Mike reversed his direction and drove back a few miles. When he arrived at the place where he thought he had stopped, he saw no trace of the oil can. For a moment he was glad; he took it as a good omen. But when he did find it he was glad again; that too was a good omen.
The rest of the drive to Mexico City was not as pleasant as its beginning. Some of his buoyancy was gone. He perceived that from now on he had to be more careful. For example, when he had reached Monterrey, he had started to buy two sleeping bags for the back of the truck, then realized he must buy only one. In a restaurant in Linares, a waiter practicing his English had asked where Mike was bound and he had found himself saying Tampico instead of Mexico City—a useless lie. He resolved to be more guarded. Even in the matter of food. He couldn’t afford to get sick now, so he must be more cautious about not eating the fruit, not tasting the roadside tacos, not drinking the water or even brushing his teeth with it.
Three days after he left Laredo he passed the Green Indian statues Howard had mentioned and he knew he was in Mexico City. He drove down the Avenida Insurgentes, past the housing projects and the spired skyscraper, over the viaduct that crossed the railroad station, and there he was, at last, at the monument of the Aztec chief Cuauhtémoc, on the main crossroad of the city.
He was within blocks of his destination. He found a public garage and parked the truck in it: the hotel mustn’t know he had arrived in his own vehicle, must certainly have no description of it. Carrying his small suitcase, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to the Hotel Fifth Avenue. It was a New York chain hotel, Howard had said, full of norteamericanos; Mike would be inconspicuous among them. Nor would he need a reservation, for it was huge, overpriced and unpopular. The best feature of its management, typically Yankee, was that the staff paid little attention to its guests—excellent for Mike’s purpose.
He checked in properly, using his real name, showing his tourist card; there was no need to do otherwise. The hotel porter, carrying Mike’s bag, showed him to a chamber of nondescript cleanliness.
It was just before six o’clock. He debated whether to go to the Chapultepec house at once. There were still a couple of hours of daylight left. Even though the kidnapping had to be done by night, he needed some time to study the neighborhood, compare the paper plan with the reality. He decided not to push it, h
e might need more than a couple of hours.
Besides, he was tired and tense. For two nights he hadn’t slept well in the back of the truck. The clean white hotel bed looked good to him. He lay down and tried to nap, but couldn’t; he had a shower instead. When he was fully dressed and ready to go out to dinner he got his camera out of his suitcase and slung it over his shoulder—part of his tourist costume.
He went by taxi to the decorously elegant Niza section, but while it was seven o’clock and in Texas he’d have been through with dinner by this time, it was still too early for Mexican restaurants. He wound up at Sanborn’s where, behind a huge department store-pharmacy, he found a pleasant, friendly dining room. Against all his resolutions, against Howard’s warnings, he ordered something with a mysterious Mexican name and was lucky to find himself served with his old familiar Texan chili con carne. After dinner, spotting John Wayne’s name on a theater marquee, he went to a movie. It had an indecipherable Spanish title but, like the chili, turned out to be an old friend, something he’d seen in Wichita Falls. His first night in Mexico City was, to his comfort and disappointment, old home week in Texas.
* * *
• • •
As the cab went through the park the next morning, the city disappeared, the noise ceased, the smog lifted. Even beyond the park, in the Lomas de Chapultepec section, the greenery continued, with mammoth yuccas, exotic flowers out of the jungle, tall palms and jacarandas. When he judged he was about a half mile from his destination, he told the driver to stop. He got out and looked at the street map Howard had marked for him. There was another map conspicuously sticking out of his outside pocket: the auto club map that proclaimed him a tourist, as loudly as did the camera slung around his neck. He must remember to walk like a tourist, pausing to gape.
All the houses were elegant and none the same. The only similarity was spaciousness: broad driveways, wide sweeps of emerald grass, expansive flower beds of yellow, orange, vermilion.
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