A Southern Girl: A Novel

by John Warley

  “Philip went back into the car for our stuff and we walked into town. Between puking my guts out and the walk I felt better, which is not to say good. I squinted so hard to filter the daylight that it was tough to see where we were going. We walked up a long, gradual hill and after a while we were on cobblestones, which added a homelike touch to the place because I was so used to the cobblestones on Church Street. We came to the town square and through the trees I saw on the other side the spire of a huge gothic cathedral. We were standing in front of what looked like a hotel, and Philip told me to stay there with the stuff while he checked it out and he left me standing there beside a couple of burros. One carried some broken sticks and the other some metal cans that I later learned contained milk.

  “Philip was smiling when he came out. He had us a room for the equivalent of $2.50 a day. We grabbed the stuff, walked inside and across a brightly lit courtyard and up a flight of stairs. He pulled out a key that looked large enough to have belonged to some medieval castle and we stumbled into this spacious room, sparsely furnished but all I cared about was the bed. I fell on mine, he on his, and the next thing I knew it was evening. Philip was still snoring. I got up, splashed water on my face from an ancient tile sink, and opened the doors to a balcony.”

  I pause, forgetting for a moment that Margarite is with me. So far in the past, and I am just realizing how very long it has been since I have dwelled on Mexico, relived it.

  “Margarite, have you ever felt so awful that bouncing back to normal is euphoric?”

  “I certainly have,” she says. “I got a flu bug one winter that did that.”

  “Then you’ll understand how I felt at that balcony. The coolest breeze surrounded me as I leaned on the wrought iron railing. Our room overlooked the square, what the Mexicans call the jardín. A small group of mariachis played somewhere under the trees. I couldn’t see them but the music floated up along with the smell of tortillas being cooked by a street vendor just below the balcony. I yelled for Philip to get up and he must have been awaken by the new air in the room because he joined me a minute or two later and I could tell that balcony had the same effect on him.

  “Philip looked down to see where the smell of food was coming from, then asked how much money I thought it would take to buy the vendor out and haul that cart up to our room. We were both ravenous and we hit that tortilla stand like a couple of locusts.”

  Margarite pours herself more Kahlua, holding the bottle out for me, but I decline. “Philip had an odd appetite,” she says, staring into her cup. “He could go for days without eating anything substantial but then gobble up everything in sight for a meal or two. But milk? He never lost his passion for milk.”

  “You don’t drink milk in Mexico, or water. Only beer.”

  “Oh, my,” she says. “It’s a wonder you two didn’t turn into alcoholics. I’m beginning to see why Philip never told us the details.”

  No, Margarite, I think as she sips from her cup, our drinking was not the reason Philip refrained from stories of Mexico. There was something else.

  “There was a girl, wasn’t there?” she asks as if reading my thoughts. “I seem to remember something about you falling in love. Philip said only that she was Mexican and very beautiful.”

  “Yes,” I acknowledge, “there was a girl.”

  “I hope you boys didn’t fight over her.”

  I know what you mean, Margarite. You imply a rivalry between friends for the affections of one girl. No, in that sense we did not fight over Adriana.

  “Tell me about her,” she urges. “That is, unless it’s private.”

  “Not at all,” I say in the kind of clever half-truth we lawyers master early. “The following morning, the roosters were going nuts while it was still dark and the bells of the cathedral sounded like they were in the next room so Philip got up at dawn to go exploring.”

  “Of course. He would want to get his bearings right away,” she confirms decisively.

  “I stayed in bed, lazy but feeling great. Just as I started to get up, I heard the key in the door. It opened, and into the room came a girl about my age. She walked straight to the bed, looked down at me, and said in broken but understandable English that she was there to make up the room.”

  “And this was her, the girl?”

  “This was Adriana. I don’t think I had ever seen a Mexican girl up close. What I remember most is her skin. The only thing I can compare it to is a peach with a suntan. She had a trace of rouge on her cheeks which I thought was unusual for a chambermaid, but then I learned that her family owned the hotel. When she looked down at me her black hair fell to either side of this perfect face and the darkest, most inviting eyes I had ever seen. She wore a white dress that was immaculate against that skin and I had trouble breathing for a moment, thinking an angel had come to make up my bed. ‘I will back come,’ she said. She had an endearing way of mixing the order of her words in English but I always understood and since I knew no Spanish I shouldn’t have laughed but I did. She figured I was making fun of her and she turned abruptly and walked out and closed the door rather forcefully.”

  “How romantic,” says Margarite. “You made it up to her?”

  “That morning. I found an old woman selling flowers, bought an armload, and tracked her down in the back of the hotel supervising maids who were washing bed sheets by hand. She seemed embarrassed but the flowers pleased her and she agreed to let me take her for a walk. I said I needed to get to know the town and she said she would show me only to practice her English because the nun at her school spoke it only during the lesson and her skills were ‘dusty,’ by which she meant rusty. So we concealed our instant attraction in logic and spent the day together.”

  “And where was Philip?”

  “He joined us that afternoon. The three of us walked everywhere. The sidewalks are stone and so narrow you must go single file at times. We would pass a decrepit door set into a pock-marked wall and I remember thinking that behind the wall lay squalor worse than any I had seen even in the dreariest slums of Charleston. But a couple of those doors opened as we passed and inside were formal gardens with tile fountains and bougainvillea in explosive reds and purples and pinks. That was my first clue that Mexico is nothing like the facade it presents to the world. Lining the tops of these walls were glass shards embedded in the mortar to discourage encroachers, and if that wasn’t enough fierce dogs who live their entire lives on the roof would bark as we approached below. Much later, Adriana led us to a promontory overlooking the town. We watched the lights flicker on as the sun went down. This sunset was even more spectacular than the one I’d seen on the train and I decided then that Mexico had found the secret for perfect sunsets.”

  “It sounds like your enthusiasm for the view might have been influenced by your companion.” Margarite winks at me knowingly. “But did Philip have no interest in this lovely girl?”

  “Oh, he did at first. He was as smitten with her as I was. But for some reason she took to me. Philip saw that. He bitched about it but then seemed to accept it and treated her like a sister. They had a great relationship; just friends.”

  “But yours was more.”

  “I fell in love and there isn’t any other way to describe it. Head over heels, whole hog crazy about her.”

  “And she reciprocated.”

  “As best she could.”

  “What do you mean, or is this getting too personal?” she wants to know. “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s okay,” I assure, flipping a hand as if to waive whatever privilege I might enjoy. “Adriana was the only daughter among the six Martinez children. Her parents were fanatical Catholics in the way only Catholics can be fanatic. Suddenly, their daughter was cutting her workdays short to spend time with a gringo heretic. Their worry turned to panic as we grew more obsessed. One night we stayed out until almost dawn and her father was waiting in the courtyard. He was furious, yelling loud enough to wake every guest in the place. He ordered her to stop seei
ng me and told me to clear out of the hotel. It was very ugly.”

  “But that didn’t stop you,” Margarite surmises.

  “It brought us closer, although not in distance because of course Philip and I had no choice but to move out. Once we did, we were totally out of sight of her parents, which actually made things better or worse depending on where you stood.”

  “Did they try to break it up?”

  “Yes, but it was the way they went about it that created the trouble. At some point they informed Rodrigo, the oldest brother, that the mortal souls of the family hung in the balance if anything came between Adriana and her education, then her marriage to a suitable Mexican. Rodrigo cornered her and, from what she told me, gave her the pitch as though he were Christ Himself.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Turned on him like she turned on me that first morning in my room. She had a mind all her own, and her plans to attend the university in Mexico City had been thrown in doubt. She even mentioned moving to Charleston.”

  “That must have put her family in a real panic.”

  “Frenzy might be closer.”

  “And you were encouraging her to abandon school?”

  “I didn’t think so at the time. All I knew was that I had to be with her whatever it took. She told me she wanted to please her parents but not at the cost of giving me up. We continued to see each other. I think they knew but they couldn’t keep her under house arrest. In Mexico, family is everything and it took courage for Adriana to defy them.”

  “What happened?”

  What happened, Margarite? That is what I cannot tell you. Not even the ample amount of Kahlua we have shared can loosen my tongue to that degree. I cannot relate the story of the night Adriana’s fate was decided, of Rodrigo’s rashness, of Philip’s role in what followed. I should tell you; you of all people have a right to know. But I cannot. It is my failing, one that is with me still, I suspect. No, I will tell you what did not happen. I will do what I do best; cast myself in a light most favorable to those who stand near enough to judge. A few lies after all these years cannot hurt, can they?

  “What happened, you asked?” and she nods. “With my encouragement she confronted her parents with her decision not to enter the university. There was a furious reaction, as she expected. She described it between sobs that evening. Well, the longer it went on the more troubled I became about taking this girl away from her family. And what were our choices? I mean, I was headed off to UVA in September, and while I was in love with her I couldn’t take her with me, couldn’t promise her anything.”

  “That’s true,” she agrees. “You kept your senses.”

  “I had to,” I continue in my most self-congratulatory tone. “What right did I have to blow into this small town and change this girl’s destiny if I was unable to offer her an alternative?”

  “So true, so true,” mutters Margarite, the Kahlua beginning to impact her speech.

  “So Philip and I talked it over and he convinced me that the best for all concerned was for us to leave town before I got in any deeper.”

  “Philip wasn’t involved so he could see clearly about changing this young girl’s life.”

  “Exactly,” I affirm and I can see this pleases her. Good, Margarite. I will try to lie as best I can so that all your images of your son are intact. Forgive my need, my compulsive need, to preserve the mirage of the living.

  “It must have been difficult breaking the news to Adriana.”

  “God, it was awful,” I lie. “She cried and pleaded and I almost gave in. I think I would have if Philip hadn’t been there to keep my feet on the ground.”

  “You would have done the same for him, Coleman.”

  No, Margarite, I would not have done for Philip what he did for me. Not in a dozen lifetimes. “Oh, sure,” I agree. “Philip and I had that kind of friendship.”

  “And so you left?”

  I should simply nod and leave it at that, but I see no real harm in weaving into my fiction a few more details. “Philip and I packed the morning we pulled out. Adriana walked us to the train station. The train was late, of course. We sat talking and I think she had cried it out by then and when we finally got up to go she kissed us. She kissed us both. We climbed in and that was that.”

  “Oh, Coleman, I think I’m going to cry. The thought of you two boys standing beside that train kissing that beautiful girl; it’s too romantic.”

  That’s exactly what it is, Margarite: too romantic, not that the truth lacks romance. “She took our addresses but I never heard from her. I don’t guess Philip did either. He never mentioned it.”

  “No,” she says, “I don’t ever recall him getting a letter from Mexico. I wonder what happened to her?”

  “I’ve wondered that many times. Some lucky Mexican man married a beautiful wife, I suppose.”

  We stand and she steadies herself discreetly. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your coming here. It makes me happy to think you boys had each other.”

  “Philip was a big part of my life. As long as I’m around, you don’t have to worry about him being forgotten.”

  “I know that. In a few years or maybe sooner—we never know—I’ll be seeing him again. That’s my faith and it keeps me going. But now I’ll have something else to talk to him about when I get there, and to think about while I’m here. Mexico.”

  We walk down stairs and she sees me to the front door, smiling again at the pleasure I have given her. I tell myself that I have done well by Philip today. To ease his mother’s burden I would do almost anything. Anything, that is, short of accounting for myself in Mexico. Same old Coleman.

  Later that evening, with Adelle at the Cooper Club, I relate conversation with Margarite and share my guess at the set-up culprits.

  “Charlotte Hines for sure,” she agrees. “Jeanette … ? I’d be more inclined toward Sandy Charles.”

  “Because of Charlotte’s influence?”

  Adelle nods. “It’s like the pied piper.” I am listening intently without appearing to be straining. This is as close as Adelle has come to discussing the fateful vote. I am too much a gentleman to ask her to boldly violate a confidence, and to her credit she has lived by the code of silence. But the calls to Margarite offer a fresh opportunity for discussion, and every gentleman knows that the back door is more revealing than the front. By assaying her thoughts on reactions to the news article, I may deduce much she is too discreet to share.

  “Naturally, Margarite was reticent,” I prompt. “She merely said two people, so we can’t rule out the men.”

  Adelle sips her bourbon and ginger, nodding agreement but offering nothing further. The club is busy tonight, and I am certain that my imagination is a freshly coated flypaper for every furtive look behind my back, every askance I think I see from those passing near the table. The news article has left me feeling like a visitor being appraised from the deep reaches of leather tufted booths, by eyes operating like two way mirrors. I am uncomfortable where I have experienced only comfort and security before.

  I tell Adelle of Margarite’s commitment to the search for a loophole. “The fact that no one has seen the rules since the 1700s may cut both ways,” I note. “On the one hand we’re fighting a phantom and on the other hand they’ll have a tough time pointing to the provision that keeps her out.” I stab the remaining olive in my martini. “I just wish I knew how many votes I actually need. I’ve been assuming it’s one but now I’m not sure.” This is blatant baiting, a shameless circling to the front door.

  “Actually, I’m surprised you need any votes at all,” she says meaningfully.

  “What?”

  “Coleman, we pledged confidentiality on the discussion because of its sensitivity, but perhaps you ought to know that no one other than Margarite knows the outcome. She counted the ballots. I couldn’t tell you what the margin was because she didn’t tell us. She merely announced that the exemption was denied.”

  “You’re kidding.” />
  “Charlotte Hines was going to object if a different decision was announced because Margarite seemed, on the surface, to be with you.”

  On the surface? Suddenly, I am blindsided by the fear that more lurks in the jungles of Haiti than wide-eyed leopards. Margarite? Impossible.

  Adelle continues. “I see now that I should have made the same demand Charlotte was planning, because I was sure you had four votes.”

  “The discussion persuaded you,” I say, charging through the front door after demolishing the screen.

  “I am honor bound not to divulge the discussion. But I hope you know me well enough to believe that if I knew the vote count I’d find some way to tell you even if it meant one blink for yes and two for no. Perhaps that’s why Margarite kept it to herself.”

  I sit back in utter disbelief.

  She leans forward conspiratorially over her drink, her eyes casting about as though spies linger. “You cannot breathe a word of what I’ve told you. I can’t prove it. I just hate to see you put your hopes in someone that could let you down. If she’s against you, Allie’s chances are nil.”

  I nod, resigned. So true. My basis for optimism has all along consisted of Margarite and Adelle. So that’s why Margarite hinted at the larger margin for the nays; she wants to discourage any hope I might harbor that turning one person around will clinch victory. She wants me to perceive such an uphill struggle that I give up and go home. While I sit in her Haiti room disclaiming all manner of legal action, she is secretly breathing a huge sigh of relief. Unbelievable!

  Adelle’s voice pulls me back. “Coleman, I’ve said too much. You’ve got to promise me, your most solemn oath, that you will never let on that I told you. If you do, Margarite will know the source at once and so will the other members. Promise me.”