Tupelo Honey

by Lis Anna-Langston

  Okay, it could have been a declarative statement.

  The Mexican man was wearing a funny Hawaiian shirt and impatiently looked toward the stoplight, waiting to cross.

  “Zo-cal-o,” she repeated, definitely declarative.

  In seconds, the man’s face lit up like a carnival. “Hotel Zocalo?” He beamed.

  “Yes . . . Yes . . .” My mother bobbed her head up and down. “Si . . . Si.”

  “¿Dónde está la Zocalo?” he asked, watching her reaction.

  She nodded too fast to stop. I could tell she had no idea what he was saying. I didn’t care. Maybe he’d feel sorry for us and lead us to our hotel, where we could shower, eat, and stop making fools of ourselves.

  He pointed. Then he counted streets on his fingers. Uno. Dos. Tres. Then this way he motioned with his right hand, then straight ahead, he motioned with his left, then . . .

  Nash stared at the man like he was from Mars. I was sure Nash would faint any second.

  “Si . . . Si.” The man said good-naturedly, then walked off, commending himself on his good deed.

  All I knew for sure was that even though he and my mother had no idea what the the man had said, we drove straight to the hotel. Hand gestures really do work. God help us.

  Before he filled out a single piece of check-in paperwork, Nash bought an English-to-Spanish dictionary from the gift shop in the lobby while I stood next to him doing the pee-pee dance. I had never seen Nash so unprepared and uncool. Granted, I wasn’t that old. There was still time for him to really make a fool of himself. Eyes squinted, searching column after column of English words, he flipped page after page until he finally looked directly into the face of a passing porter and inquired, “De baño?”

  “Si.” The porter pointed down the hall.

  “That way,” Nash said to me.

  I broke into a full-throttle run. My patent leather shoes clacked frantically against the tile. The universal gender signs of woman with dress and man with no dress were glued to doors directly opposite each other. I chose the one with a dress, ran into a stall, hoisted my own skirt, and peed what felt like half my weight. When no one came to get me, I dawdled a little, checking out the bathroom for the differences between where I came from and Mexico. Not much that I could see. Pretty standard stuff. Toilet, stalls, mirrors, and sinks. There were soaps wrapped in paper. Each one honeysuckle or rose, so I helped myself to a few, stashing my loot in my pink fuzzy purse.

  When I walked back into the lobby, a very distinguished member of the hotel, wearing an impeccable navy pinstriped suit, explained to Nash that he had to park in the underground parking garage because there was twenty-four hour security. His English was excellent, clear, almost British, and his nails were perfectly manicured. I was so sleepy I saw three of everything, including him.

  Fifteen minutes later Inca trotted through the lobby at Nash’s side. I waited by the elevators with my mother, who looked like she’d left her sense of humor in Arkansas. Nash had the dog leash in one hand and a suitcase in the other. Behind him, a small Mexican man in a bellboy suit rolled the rest of our luggage on a cart. Nash’s eyes were stretched so thin at the edges I wondered if he was going to collapse.

  The bellboy jammed his finger into the call button for the elevator, keeping a strict eye on Inca, who hitched up his hind leg and peed on the potted plants positioned between the doors. Nash rolled his eyes. The bellboy pointed, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Suddenly the green arrow flashed and dinged. A wave of relief passed through everyone as the doors opened like a great big yawn. We all filed in behind the big luggage cart. Everyone except Inca. The bellboy pressed the “hold” button and smiled politely.

  “Come on.” Nash pulled the leash.

  Inca reared his head back, tracing his eyes up and around the edges of the metal door.

  “Come on,” Nash repeated, slower, more like a growl.

  “Come on, Inca.” I clapped my hands together, trying to get him to play along.

  “Oh, Jesus . . . ” Nash exhaled, stepping out of the elevator. “You are the worst guard dog in the world.”

  Inca wagged his tail, happy to be acknowledged. Nash grabbed his collar, pulling him towards the opening. Inca dug his toenails deep into the tile, throwing all of his weight back on his hind legs.

  “Get in the elevator,” Nash groaned.

  Prisoner to a sort of exhausted anger, Nash marched around to the back of Inca and began to push. Inca mysteriously turned his body into a block of immovable stone. Determined to get the big block of stubborn fur into the elevator, Nash wedged himself behind the dog and began pushing. Inca didn’t slide an inch. Red-faced and annoyed, Nash kept pushing, his hands digging into flesh and fur. I glanced out at the lobby and realized we had begun to draw attention to ourselves.

  Lines of extreme agitation popped out on Nash’s forehead as the rest of us watched him push against a force that simply would not be moved. Then just as the curse words began, Inca stood up, completely unperturbed, and walked away. Nash lost his balance and fell to his knees like he was praying to an elevator full of people wondering why he couldn’t get that stupid dog to obey. Inca did not walk into the elevator but instead walked into the middle of the lobby, hitched up his tail, and crapped on the floor. Right in front of everyone.

  I thought Nash was going to explode. This time the bellboy rolled his eyes and let go of the “hold” button. There was no way he was cleaning up dog poo. The last thing I saw was Nash grabbing the dog by the collar, yelling, “We’ll take the stairs.”

  I bet you will.

  Fourteen floors up, the bellboy opened the door to our room, handing the key to my mother. Hungry, disoriented, and riddled with nerves, I collapsed on a queen-sized bed. My mother pulled out a bottle of Valium and swallowed three.

  I lifted my head. “Can I have one?”

  She eyed me, then said, “Yeah, you can have half of one but you have to swallow it dry. Don’t drink the water out of the faucet.”

  I worked up a mouthful of spit and then took my Valium like a good girl.

  The last thing I remember was my head falling back into the pillow. I woke much later to the black haze of night held back by a skinny stream of bathroom light. Rising up on my arms, I saw that everyone was gone except for Inca, who was miraculously in one piece, perched close to my head, licking his feet. Someone had thrown a blanket over me, and I loved the cool feeling of the freshly washed pillowcase against my cheek. Luggage was stacked up on the dresser, and a carry-on spewed its contents across the other bed.

  Standing up to stretch, I could see the twinkle of lights cascading out over Mexico City in all directions. It was way more beautiful than Mississippi. I decided to count sheep in Spanish to celebrate this new world and fell asleep with the smell of wet dog fur hovering around my nose. I only knew how to count to three: uno, dos, tres.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning I awoke to the sound of Nash’s electric razor buzzing in the bathroom. Before we left for breakfast he took Inca down for a walk. Fourteen floors down and fourteen floors up. When he returned, his armpits were damp with dark stains marring his otherwise perfect cashmere sweater. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, trapped in his brow. Inca was very pleased, wagging his tail, ready to go back to sleep.

  “Where did you guys go last night?”

  My mother looked over. “Why? Did you talk to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t worry about it.”

  For the first time in my life I had tortillas for breakfast. Under the canopy of the outdoor café I ate tomatoes, onions, warm tortillas, eggs, ham, beans. The coffee was rich and black, and it wafted through the open windows until I could smell nothing else. I begged openly for a cup with thick cream and sugar. My mother told me no. When she went to the bathroom, Nash gave me the rest of his. It was delicious.

  A big pile of steaming dog poo greeted us when we got back to our hotel room. The veins on Nash’s forehead almost e
xploded. The smell was noxious. Inca had dropped a load in the middle of the floor and passed out on the bed. Nash tried to pry a window open. It wouldn’t budge. Inca lifted his head, wagging his tail. For some reason this really pissed Nash off. Pointing his finger at the dog, he yelled, “How many times have I walked you up and down those damn stairs because you’re too afraid to go in the elevator? You butthole.”

  Inca didn’t seem to mind.

  Nash used an entire roll of toilet paper to clean up the pile. Afterward, he turned the fan in the bathroom on, sprayed air freshener kept on hand for marijuana smoke, and we left again even though we didn’t have anywhere to go. For an hour we sat in the hotel lounge while Nash drank tequila and lime, occasionally swearing under his breath at the dog. When sufficient time for the room to air out had passed, we trekked back to the elevators.

  The first thing I noticed when we opened the door was that Inca has dragged his plastic dog dish into the middle of the floor and shredded it into a thousand pieces. The second thing I noticed was that it still smelled like doggie doo. Minty doggie doo.

  “Just open the door and get some air in here.” My mother flopped down on the edge of the bed.

  Nash turned. “We could be robbed,” he said, through clenched teeth.

  “I thought we brought the dog to protect us.”

  Everyone looked over at Inca sitting proudly in the overstuffed chair.

  Over the course of the next few days hundred-dollar bills became my babysitter. Nash handed them out like Halloween candy to off-duty housekeepers who wanted to make a little cash. As it turned out, all of them wanted to make a little cash. A twenty-four-hour babysitting posse followed me everywhere, smiling, pointing, giving me full glasses of soda whenever I asked. None of them spoke English. Translation: I ran wild.

  My favorite sitter was Maria, a lovely Mexican woman who let me do anything as long as I stayed right by her side. I watched television, ate cookies, drank glasses of soda filled to the brim with sweet carbonated, icy fizz. She helped me make a tray out of a cardboard box to eat my dinner on. When I spilled a new soda right smack dab in the middle of my bed, she laughed. Taking my hand, she descended with me into the bowels of the hotel for clean linens.

  Down in the basement everyone knew Maria. She was a celebrity there. Holding her hand tight I followed her as she wound through a steamy, warm laundry room, where she grabbed a stack of fresh linens, pillowcases, and blankets. She never yelled at me. She spoke to me in smiles. In the elevator, on the way up to the room, I decided I loved her.

  The elevator music was in Spanish. I realized I was beginning to love not knowing what everyone was saying. I was beginning to love not having to analyze every word coming out of the mouths of strangers. I was able to move freely through the labyrinth of my own mind without interruption. The ding was universal. The smile was universal. The doors opened. I imagined that when I was old enough to vote and drive I would move back to Mexico City and live with Maria in this place filled with millions of people. Someone would teach me the language. I would never have to go back to Mississippi again.

  Maria took my hand, leading me back down the hall to our room. Once inside she stripped the bed sheets, laying a towel over the wet soda spot. In my excitement I jumped up on the other bed, telling her in great detail how I would stay here and live with her and she would smile at me everyday. I told her that I would call Marmalade collect and that she would send us money. I told her, nearly breathless, how we could go to the market and shop and hold hands. She laughed and smiled, holding her arms out to dance with me on the bed. I jumped straight into the air, holding tight to her hands, and we both let out whoops of laughter. While she spread the clean sheets on my bed I told her how we could drink coffee in the afternoons and listen to records on my portable record player. She smiled so warm and bright and true that in my ecstatic delight I passed out in my clothes, and when I woke in the middle of the night Maria was gone. Nash was across from me, snoring. I laid my hand against the sheet, feeling the towel underneath.

  The next morning I set about bothering the crap out of Nash to have her baby sit again. “Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease,” I whined all the way through shaving. Then I offered to help him walk Inca so I could drive him crazy fourteen floors down and fourteen floors up. “Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease,” I howled in the stairwell, listening to my voice fill up the empty space.

  Finally, in the lobby, Nash said, “Hold on. I’ll see if she’s working.”

  Thrilled to the brim, I clung to Inca’s collar, holding him tight. Nash walked to the desk and spoke to the clerk on duty. A second later, he nodded and walked back over to me.

  Nash leaned down close and said, “Not today, Tupelo Honey. She’s off work.”

  My spirits plummeted. Then rebounded. “I could go to her house.”

  Nash laughed, snatching the leash of our ornery dog. “We don’t know where she lives.”

  “We could ask the manager.”

  “No. Your mother will never let you go.”

  That night Nash and my mother took Inca in the car to “take care of business.” The new sitter was nice but she wasn’t Maria. I decided not to make her life a living hell, and after a plate of burritos and an hour of tv I fell asleep.

  Maria wasn’t at work the next day either. That evening Nash packed up the car. I dragged my ass through the lobby, my eyes scanning every person and object for a sign of her. Fourteen floors worth of exercise had tested Nash’s patience. He had that look. I decided not to push my luck. I climbed into the backseat with Inca. The ding of the car door reminded me of the elevator, which reminded me of my friend.

  In complete silence we drove out of the city, down through a dark grove of trees, past a lake with great feathers of moonlight splashed across its surface. The sound of breathing filled the space in the car. My mother was acting quiet, weird. After an hour or so, we left the concrete behind for a gravel road and after that a dirt road that had big ruts in it. Because I didn’t know where we were going and because no one was going to tell me, I looked in all directions for some idea of what was going on. Up ahead lights danced like fireflies. The closer we got, the more I could make out the shape of a house in the woods. All of the lights were on. As we pulled to a stop Nash turned the headlights off. Directly in front of us was the dark outline of a man standing at the screen door holding a gun.

  Nash got out of the car. “Wait here.”

  No problem.

  Nash walked across the dusty patch of yard to stand at the base of the steps. He said something to the man at the screen door. Then, as if drawn together like magnets, they met in the middle of the porch, shaking hands. It was Pablo. He looked different out here, in the middle of nowhere, away from the sparkle of New York. He was wearing a simple pair of pants and a brown shirt but he still didn’t look like anyone else. He was different. People walked around him.

  The two of them returned to our car. Nash opened the back door, holding Inca so that I could get out. Pablo leaned down close and said, “I am waiting to see you again.”

  I took his hand, stepping out. He made me feel like a princess.

  Then he mussed up my hair.

  Pablo and Nash sat at a wooden table on the porch for a long time, drinking coffee, talking, as men and women from the house took out our entire backseat and packed it with tightly wrapped boxes that they called hash. I’d had corn beef hash, but I knew this wasn’t going to be our dinner. My mother sat at the end of the porch, clinging to Inca’s collar, gnawing on her fingernails. I watched the men and women, memorizing the shapes of their faces and the colors in their shirts. They had work boots or went barefoot. They had dark skin and shiny hair, and if they moved too far from the light they looked like shadows. They worked quietly, efficiently, not uttering a single word. Pablo and Nash talked in English, keeping their voices lowered.

  When our backseat was put back, Pablo stood up, and he and Nash inspected the car.

  “Good,” Pablo said.

&nbs
p; Nash nodded.

  We loaded back into the Hashmobile and drove off. Goodbye, Maria. Goodbye, Pablo. Goodbye Mexico City.

  Hello Texas. We drove for days. Back in our old house, we all fell asleep for the better part of the weekend. When I went back to school I described to my teachers what I’d seen and smelled and tasted. I told them about the holes in the mountains where the women made crosses out of hay and twigs and ribbon. I smacked my lips, recalling the thick, creamy chocolate in cups with cinnamon on top, the taste of onions, tomatoes, and garlic. Mostly they listened to me with a blank expression. But Randall was interested. He said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. I like Taco Bell myself.”

  Chapter 8

  Since we had taken an extra long Thanksgiving vacation, I was back in school for only a week when we were out again for Christmas break. I spent most of the time at Marmalade’s house, but Nash brought me home the day before Christmas. He had decorated a tree and hung a stocking for me on the mantle of the fireplace.

  That was a first.

  In my mind, Santa had always been a little shady. I mean, he came and went without a sound, supposedly thumping on the roof in a sleigh driven by cheerful reindeer that didn’t seem to mind hauling his big ass around. This I had to see. Staying up past my bedtime was fairly easy, but once Moochi fell asleep the hours dragged on and on. The house was so quiet. I lay in bed trying to remember fractions to keep myself awake. When I was about to drift into a sugarplum slumber I jerked myself awake, dedicated to the cause. The Santa Cause. I’d spent half the day making cookies just in case he had the munchies. I wasn’t about to fall asleep now.

  At sixteen minutes past midnight I heard the door to my mother and Nash’s bedroom open. The smell of marijuana drifted down the hall. I gave it a few minutes, then sneaked over to my window to spy. Off in the silent distance, our front door closed quietly. I was fairly certain Nash was up to something so I ran outside.