Ask for Me Tomorrow

by Margaret Millar

  “No.”

  “He and the girl, Tula, may in fact be living happily ever after with half a dozen kids.”

  “No.” She moved her head back and forth, slowly, as if her neck had suddenly become stiff. “They only had one, a boy. He was born crippled.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “B. J. wrote me a letter five years ago.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “It’s in here.”

  She opened the envelope and shook out the contents on the table, snapshots, photographs, newspaper clippings, notarized documents, a bunch of letters tied together, a single one by itself.

  The largest photograph was that of a bride and groom: Gilly, in a white lace gown and veil, carrying a tiny bouquet of lilies of the valley. Her expression was mischievous and girlish, as if the photographer had caught her between giggles. B. J., in morning coat and striped trousers, seemed to be sharing the joke and trying hard to keep from laughing. He had a small round face, very red, as though the strain of suppressing his laughter had sent the blood rushing to his head and the tight collar had trapped it there. He looked like a kind man who wished other people well and expected nothing but kindness from them in return. Aragon wondered how often he’d been surprised.

  Gilly stared at the photograph for a long time. “We were very happy.”

  “I can see you were.”

  “Naturally he won’t look like that anymore. The picture was taken thirteen years ago when he was forty-one. Maybe we’ve both changed so much we wouldn’t even recognize each other.”

  “You haven’t changed much—some loss of weight, hair not so brown, laugh lines a little deeper.”

  “Those aren’t laugh lines, Aragon, they’re cry lines. And they’re deeper, all right. They’re etched all the way through to the back of my head . . . Well, anyway, I wanted to show you a picture of him as he was in his prime. I thought he was simply beautiful. I see now, of course, that he wasn’t. In the cold light of an eight-year separation he may even look a little silly, don’t you think?”

  “No.”

  “No, neither do I, really.” The pitch of her voice altered like an instrument suddenly gone flat. “I was crazy about him. I’m not the kind of woman who attracts men without any effort. I’m not pretty enough or tactful enough or whatever enough. I had to fight like hell to land B. J. He was married when I met him. So was Marco. I often wonder if it isn’t some kind of retribution that I should lose them both.”

  “I don’t believe in retribution.”

  “You haven’t met Violet Smith.” She put the wedding portrait back in the manila envelope, her hands trembling slightly. “You’ll need some pictures of him with you when you go.”

  “Exactly where and when am I going?”

  “When is as soon as you can get ready and we can agree on terms. Where I’m not sure . . . There are several good snapshots of B. J. Here’s the last one. I took it myself. And I know it’s the last because by the time the negative was developed and returned to me, B. J. was gone.”

  The snapshot showed B. J. behind the wheel of an elaborate new motor home. The fancy gold script across the door identified it as Dreamboat.

  B. J. needed no identification. He hadn’t changed much in the five years since the wedding portrait was taken. His face was still plump and ruddy, and he wore a placid smile as if nothing whatever was bothering him, least of all the fact that he was about to run away with a pregnant fifteen-year-old girl. Obviously B. J. was expecting pleasant things ahead. He may have been imagining himself in the new role of father, helping his son learn to walk, taking him to parks and zoos, teaching him to play ball, swim, sail a boat, telling him about the birds and the bees and how a little sister would be arriving, or a little brother . . . They didn’t live happily ever after with half a dozen kids. They only had one, a boy. He was born crippled.

  Aragon said, “Do you have a picture of the girl, Tula Lopez?”

  “Why should I? She was a servant, not a member of the family. In fact, she was only employed here for about six months. She proved incompetent and lazy. But she must have been a fast worker in her off hours. By the time I decided to fire her, the decision had been made for me.”

  “How did you hire her in the first place?”

  “Stupidly. There was a sob story in the local newspaper about some illegal aliens who were going to be sent back to Mexico if they weren’t sponsored and given jobs. B. J. and I offered to help. He had a soft heart and I had a soft head, or maybe it was vice versa. Anyhow, for a couple of softies we did some pretty hard damage.” She added cryptically, “The whole thing was like a war—nobody won.”

  Aragon set aside the pictures he wanted to take with him: the one of B. J. in Dreamboat, another of him sitting on the edge of the pool with his feet dangling in the water, a couple of full-face Polaroid shots and a copy of his passport photo. In all of them, even the passport, he looked pretty much the same, rather homely in a pleasant way, the kind of man who posed no threat to anyone and offered no challenge. Only a woman Gilly’s age could have considered him beautiful; a fifteen-year-old would see him more clearly.

  Gilly picked up the letter that was separate from the others and handed it to Aragon. It was heavy. The envelope—addressed to G. G. Lockwood, 1020 Robinhood Road, Santa Felicia, California—was expensive bond paper, engraved Jenlock Haciendas, Bahía de Ballenas, Baja California Sur. The grade of paper and the engraving were obviously meant to impress, but the handwriting inside ruined the effect. It was like that of a child not accustomed to the use of pen and ink or the discipline of forming letters.

  Aragon said, “Are you sure this is B. J.’s handwriting?”

  “Pretty sure. He never learned to write decently and he forgot to take along his typewriter.” She smiled wryly. “I guess it’s one of the things you tend to overlook under the circumstances . . . Can you make it out?”

  “I think so.”

  “Read it aloud.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to hear how it sounds coming from a stranger. Maybe it’ll give me a few laughs.”

  “If it’s very personal, you might want to reconsider your decision.”

  “There are no torrid passages, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “I’m not worried exactly. I’d simply like to spare you any embarrassment.”

  “Is that what they teach you in law school, not to embarrass people? Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.”

  “Smedler, Downs, Castleberg, McFee and Powell,” Aragon said, “only hire stuffed shirts.”

  “Really?”

  “To protect their image.”

  “Well, I don’t give a cow chip about their image. And you won’t either when you find out what it is.”

  He already had and already didn’t, but he wasn’t eager to admit it, especially to one of Smedler’s golden oldies.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she said, frowning. “Haven’t you ever heard the word ‘cow chip’ before?”

  “Sure. About every half-hour from my old man, only he said caca de toro. Otherwise my old lady wouldn’t have understood. She never learned English.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Here. I was born in the barrio on lower Estero Street.”

  “What’s a barrio?”

  “A Mexican ghetto.”

  “Good. You’ll be able to deal with these people on their own level.”

  “And what level are these people on, Mrs. Decker?”

  “Oh hell, don’t get fussed up over some silly little remark. The Tula Lopez incident gave me kind of a prejudiced view of her whole race.”

  “I’ll try to correct that,” Aragon said. “I think we’ll get along fine.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I’m being paid to think so.”

 
; “Why, that’s downright cynical. Did you learn such stuff in your boy scout manual? That’s what Smedler called you, you know, a real boy scout.”

  “It’s an improvement over some of the things I’ve called him. In private, of course, like between you and me.”

  “I see. The lawyer-client relationship works both ways.”

  “Ideally, yes.”

  “Smedler also told me you were a very nice young man. That worried me because I’m not a very nice old lady. I wonder if we’ll have any common ground. Do you have a sense of humor?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well, read B. J.’s letter and let’s have a few laughs. Or didn’t you believe that about me getting some laughs out of it?”

  “No.”

  “You could be wrong. Laughter, as Violet Smith says, is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe this time I’ll behold it funny. Go ahead, read it.”

  4

  Dear Gilly:

  You’re probably surprised to be hearing from me after all this time. I’d like to think you’re even a little bit pleased, too, but how could you be after the crazy way I ran out on you like that. Honestly I didn’t have much control over the situation. A man has to do the right thing under certain circumstances and I did it. You know Gilly I wanted to say goodbye in a civilized manner but I was just plain scared of you. I mean how you’d take it etc. And Tula kept saying hurry up, hurry up, as if the baby was going to be born any minute. (It wasn’t born for 6 months, I guess she was just anxious to get away from the immigration authorities and back to her own family.)

  Anyway here I am in this place that’s hard to describe. Do you remember that time we went to a football game at the college stadium with Dave Smedler and his wife (I forget which one). Suddenly somebody yelled Whales! and we all looked out over the ocean and there they were, 5 or 6 grey whales migrating through the channel just beyond the kelp beds. It was some sight, blowing and leaping in

  the air and submerging again. Well Gilly you’d never guess where they were headed. Here. Right here a few hundred yards from where I sit writing this letter. Bahía de Ballenas is on a lovely little bay (it means Bay of Whales) and the grey whales come down here from California to have their calves etc. I never knew this before I got here. In fact I never thought of whales as doing much along that line but naturally they do. They’re human just like us.

  The water in the bay is very blue, as blue as your eyes used to be, G. G. I guess they still are, why not? I keep thinking it’s such a long time since I’ve seen you but it really hasn’t been 3 years. It seems longer to me because this place is so foreign and the people live so different. I haven’t caught on to the lingo or the way they can ignore dirt and bugs and things. I often think of how you used to take 3 showers a day. You certainly were a clean person.

  “ ‘You certainly were a clean person,’ ” Gilly said. “I behold that funny, don’t you, Aragon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a clean person with eyes as blue as the bay where a herd of whales go to copulate and calve. What a great compliment.”

  “I’ve heard worse.”

  She walked over to the barbecue pit and stood for a while staring down into it as if at the ashes of old forgotten fires. “I never took three showers a day. Where’d he dredge up that idea?” She turned back with a sudden explosive sound that seemed to come all the way from her bowels. “Ethel! By God, he got me mixed up with Ethel. How do you like that? He not only can’t remember which of Smedler’s wives went with us to the football stadium, he can’t even remember which of his own wives took three showers a day.”

  “The letter’s been in your possession for five years. It’s a little late to fuss about it now.”

  “She’s just the type to take three showers a day. And who’s fussing?”

  “The evidence indicates you are.”

  “Okay, you want to play lawyer, define your terms.”

  “Fussing is an unnecessary futile display of irritability that stops short of loss of temper.”

  “All right, I was fussing, dammit.”

  “Shall I go on reading?”

  “Yes.”

  Now G. G. don’t misunderstand what I wrote. I find the people here peculiar, who wouldn’t, but the place itself is simply terrific, blue water, blue skies, no rain. It’s sort of a piece of California desert like Yucca Valley for instance only it’s right beside the ocean like Santa Felicia. A winning combination as you can well imagine which is why I’m betting on it. I’ve bet my shirt if you want the truth!

  I know how businesslike and practical you are so I’ll stop beating around the bush and come right out and state the purpose of this letter. Did you notice

  the letterhead? In case you missed the connection it has part of my name in it, the ‘lock’ in Jenlock is me. Me and a fellow called Jenkins (he’s awfully smart, cram full of bright ideas) are in this project together. It’s cost me a mint so far. But as Jenkins says Rome wasn’t built in a day for 50 pesos and you have to spend money to get money. I enclose a brochure about Jenlock Haciendas. We’re going to have a lot more printed when cash becomes available. Quite a few have already been mailed to interested parties.

  “Where’s the brochure?” Aragon said.

  “I tore it up.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a short fuse.”

  “So what lit it?”

  “The thing was such an obvious come-on, the high-flown descriptions of a marina, a social center, a golf course, the haciendas themselves, when all they really had was a hunk of desert and a bunch of whales. I felt like going to Smedler with the brochure and asking him to investigate. Instead, I just tore it up. As I said, I have a short fuse. I’m also pretty tight with a buck.”

  “B. J. asked you for money?”

  “Did he ever. Read on.”

  I need $100,000. Actually I need more but with that much I can at least cover current expenses and some past bills which are mounting up. Please don’t think I’m just asking for that amount of money. I’m merely offering you the opportunity to invest in what I consider a truly promising venture. Or if you prefer instead to make me a straight loan at current interest rates that would be all right, too. The former suits me better personally. We would be sort of partners again. No matter which way you send it G. G. please send it, I really desperately need it.

  I hope you won’t think I’m begging for money. (Sounded like it there for a minute didn’t it?) This is a very fine investment. I consider myself lucky to be in on the ground floor so to speak. But any kind of development takes a great deal more money than a person realizes in the beginning and Jenlock Haciendas is not your average development. It has class. Once the Americans get word of it we expect to be deluged with offers—retired people sick of smog and sportsmen looking for a vacation home (the fishing is great especially from May to September) or just plain nature lovers wanting to renew their contact with wildlife. Getting the word out, that’s one of the problems we need money to solve, buying up lists of names and taking out ads in newspapers and magazines, perhaps a few T. V. spots. That would stimulate plenty of action. When you answer this (either way, yes or no, please answer) would you send it by registered mail? The other kind may take weeks or months or forever.

  I’ve thought a whole lot about you and me G. G. and what happened. I did so many dumb things I’m sorry about now like taking Dreamboat. I’m truly sorry for that because I know you’d made a lot of vacation plans etc. But Tula said we wouldn’t have any place to live otherwise and she was right. When we got here there were just a lot of old shacks and people were already crammed in them like sardines. I never thought human beings could live like that but here I am doing it myself. Tula’s family gradually moved in with us and I’m a sardine like the rest of them. Of course that’s only temporary. When Jenlock Haciendas gets into the construction phase I intend to occupy the first one f
inished as a combination office and dwelling. You know I’ve never been in business before and I’m looking forward to trying my wings. Please answer this soon G. G.

  Hopefully, with affection, with regrets,

  B. J.

  P.S. It’s terribly important for me to make good on this not just for me personally but for the boy. Unless I leave him provided for Pablo is in for a hard time. He was born crippled. You were right not to want children by me. I have rotten blood . . .

  For a minute neither of them spoke. The room seemed to be silenced by the ghosts of a long-gone man, a crippled child, a dream. Then Gilly said, “He not only had rotten blood, he had rotten judgment. I didn’t send him a nickel.”

  “Did you answer his letter?”

  “No. He didn’t want an answer. He wanted the right answer and I wasn’t prepared to give it to him. Sure, I’ve often felt guilty about it. After all, every cent I own was his to begin with.”

  “What happened to Jenlock Haciendas?”

  “I don’t know. Once in a while I’d look in the real-estate section of the Los Angeles Times and occasionally I’d buy a San Diego paper, but I never found any mention of Jenlock Haciendas or Bahía de Ballenas. That doesn’t prove anything, of course. He may have gotten the money from some place else and the project is a big success. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I’m hiring you to go down and see. Hell, maybe he’s struck it rich and I’ll touch him for a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “You must consider other possibilities, Mrs. Decker. He may have left there by now. Or he may be dead.”

  “In either case I want to know. I also want to know what’s happened to the boy.”

  So that’s it, Aragon thought, the kid. She’s rich and getting old, she has no relatives and pretty soon when Decker dies she’ll be alone. A kid would bring life to the house again.

  She said, “He’s half Mexican, sure, but he’s also half B. J., which makes him sort of related to me. Doesn’t it?”