Homunculus

by Wintner, Robert;

  She brightened. “We could ride,” she said.

  He thought she meant more pumping the jam, or maybe she had bicycles out back. “Ride?”

  “Yeah. Ride. Horses. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Did we discuss horses?

  She laughed, remembering potential. He wasn’t the first stray dog to slurp coffee in her kitchen with a ticket back to nowhere. They wondered what next. A minute passed. The merry-go-round slowed down so two of the older kids could jump off. He wondered if another night would be worth trying. She wondered what kind of lame ass she dragged home this time. The silence said it best, until Suey dragged her load across the atrium.

  Down the last long hall to the dining salon, she called over the fountain babble, “I drank so much my shit smells like liquor.” She stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Well it smells like liquor-flavored shit anyway …” Little wrinkles on her forehead said she didn’t remember him either. She got coffee and mumbled recollection of a long time ago, getting drunk and eating monkey burgers all on account of Lawrence. She looked up. “Why him? Why now?”

  “Excuse us,” Heidi said.

  “Excuse me,” Suey said, shuffling off to the parlor for a colorized Erroll Flynn and a love funk of her own.

  Heidi said, “I don’t do this.”

  “No. I don’t either,” he said. They stared, seeking belief and believability. “It was natural. Electric.”

  “You believe that now, daylight and sober?”

  “Who’s sober?” he said.

  She worked a napkin with her fingers, tearing it to bits. She said a grown woman should know why she does this sort of thing. For years she viewed romance on a casual level and hadn’t changed her mind but no longer needed to risk her peace of mind or her health. And here they were. She said she wasn’t sure it existed, romance. It was a delusion suffered by women, even into the years of drinking and banging their friends because their friends were pretty good guys who insisted. She said she knew women who looked worn out—big drinkers, chain smokers, all-nighters—still hoping for the magic after bedding some road guy. She laughed and asked if she looked familiar and said she’d rather see a thing for what it is, especially if it’s nothing at all. She wasn’t ready to forget her emotions, but some seemed put away for awhile, and, well …

  She had a friend once, a woman who loved many men. “She didn’t like the sex and didn’t think she was very good at it and never was satisfied and was always scared, even with condoms. She said she did it for love, so she could feel love.” She made two piles of napkin bits, then one. “I told her that ain’t love. She said maybe not, but from about ten to two they think they might get lucky and want her so bad they can taste it. She’d have some drinks and pretend the guy wasn’t dopey and was a great lover who’d keep coming on. She said it was nature’s gift to women that men are so blind horny over any woman in the world.” She stared off, end of story.

  “You mean like us last night?”

  She gave him the half smile that meant no, last night was different, or else yes, like last night, horny and drunk. But she was done and stayed mum. If he didn’t get it, then he was one more cool jerk. But he got it. He’d sat here before, off the merry-go-round and talking it through. He’d sat here plenty over the years of too much liquor and banging his friends, the women; sat here wondering if he should stay or go.

  He wished the coffee would kick in so the day could look up. She wanted to talk about love, wanted to know where they stood, what was up and who was which, because women pay with their hearts for nature’s gift of horny men. She wanted to know if a few more hours lie ahead, or if forever might move in and stay awhile. Maybe this was it, romance at last, as seen on TV.

  Tony got it but played it safe. “I don’t get it.”

  She smiled. “Of course you don’t.” She lit a smoke and tugged; smoke was truth. She let out a skyful smooth and easy, turning their coffee klatch to a cloudy day. “You were something last night.”

  “You mean from five to seven?”

  “It was more like six to six-fifteen.”

  “Yeah, well, not so bad for an old guy.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “They don’t get rowdy like the young’uns, but they don’t hightail it at sunrise either.”

  “Can’t. Some can’t even drag their asses down the hall before lunch,” he said.

  “Yeah, you’re doing great.” He folded his napkin, sat back and sighed, calculating rates on the two-night package. “I didn’t mean physically,” she said. “I had a feeling last night. I had it once with Charles but not since. That was a long time ago. It feels like a long time.”

  “Charles?” Tony had not come to know Charles, hadn’t learned the lay of the land.

  “Yeah. He’s a tour driver and an actor.”

  “Yes, I met Charles,” he said. She remembered more about Charles and love than another man wants to hear. She told what a woman wants. He listened, refiguring.

  She got up for a fresh pour. “It was nothing,” she said. “He’s not interested.” She sipped and stared, either doubting her assessment or wishing it wasn’t so. “He’s not present. It was clinical. Two humans copulating. It was nothing.” She’d thought it through.

  “It must have been something. You don’t do this. And here you are doing it again, telling me about the last time. It had an effect on you. Was that the last time?”

  She shrugged. “You’ll get to know him. You’d wonder. I wanted to get it out of the way. He’s a great guy. You’ll like him.”

  “So I’m staying?”

  “Looks like it. But the main thing is—I’m not just telling you this—I felt good last night. I haven’t felt that way since, you know …”

  “You mean you felt good with Charles, but he didn’t come back for seconds?”

  “No. He didn’t.” She sat down, staring, sorting. “He didn’t come back and I don’t blame him. We never got … You know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “We never got warmed up,” she said.

  “You’re losing me.”

  “Well I’m not going to spell it out for you.”

  “Did we get warmed up?” he asked.

  “No. You didn’t.”

  “But that is your preference, warmed up?”

  “Stop talking like an idiot. Don’t you remember when your wife left? That was because you couldn’t get warmed up. I think you probably did though. You’re not dull. A little bit tired. But you are old.”

  “She didn’t leave,” he said.

  “Gotcha, huh?”

  “Yeah, right. You got me.” He looked around for answers to obvious questions. What if Charles wanted back in? He didn’t ask, because he might need a fresh rider on this pony express.

  “It’s not just the sex part,” she said. “My best sex date spoiled me for anybody else for a long time. He was so slow. Who the hell likes foreplay for forty-five minutes? That’s what I thought. He could honestly make you think he could take it or leave it, you know, doing just the right thing.”

  “Mm. I can only imagine. But I have heard women talk. He was a sex athlete and you couldn’t get enough, but it was all slip and slide with no love. Right?”

  “You are a smart man,” she said.

  “He took the time to look. He sniffed. He tasted …”

  “Stop.”

  “Just a hunch. A man shouldn’t think a woman is played out because she’s experienced. A girl needs to dabble, right? She needs to explore radical sex with no love. You show me a woman without a few meaningless sex adventures under her belt, I’ll show you a woman who still lives at home.”

  “You do get it,” she said. “So many men think they’re doing you a big favor to drop a load in your pants. We learn that the hard way. Who needs it?”

  “I know I don’t,” he said. She looked up, half-smiling, and took his hand. He got up for more caffeine. “So we got Charles who was sensitive and made you feel good, but he wasn’t a sex athlete tha
t we know of, and then we got the sex athlete. I forgot where we started.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. Charles is a terrific lover.” She called him a lover, upgraded from a lay. “Charles is a great guy. But we didn’t do it in the library, or in the middle of dinner, or during the intermission at Lucinda Wells’ art lectures …”

  “In the library?”

  “You have to be quiet or you get caught.”

  “I’ve known women who wanted to get caught. But an art lecture? He missed that? Because he didn’t hang around? Have you told him?”

  “Why should I? Why should I tell anything?”

  “Mm. Good question. Was the sex athlete warm enough for cultural adventures?”

  “Not the lecture intermission. I never did that. But I want to.” She savored her fantasy. “Lucinda Wells goes on and on. Historical context. Influence. Comparison. Hue. Color. Stroke. I get restless. I have a spot.”

  “I read about that stuff.” She laughed. “I love art,” he said. “Except for influence and pretext. When does Louella Hall talk again?”

  She leaned close. He could smell her fresh cotton blouse. “You won’t be ready till Tuesday. I’ll tell you then, maybe. Besides. I’m saving it. You just got here.”

  “But I’m in the running with Charles?”

  “Not with Charles. He split. That’s what he does. Every man requires forgiveness. Charles is okay. Pretty good guy. He’s just a fucker.”

  “And I’m just a fucker too, a little bit tired but a good fucker who stayed for coffee?”

  “I think you understand.”

  She dealt truth like horse pills, sometimes too much to swallow. But he played along. It shaped up as a good time with decent conversation, some friendly if demanding sex and some insight now and then. Prospects were better than yesterday and way ahead of last week. She finished her coffee and walked out. He sat back, wide-eyed and tired, arrived again at somewhere else. What a view.

  When she stood again in the doorway she said, “We should get your things. Then we’ll head up to the hills. You’ll love it.” She cracked a smile; Tony and Heidi were going out to play. He loved again, loved something so simple as a new day. He stood slowly into his new life that would last the weekend anyway and followed what felt like a reasonable lead.

  She held his hand like she had last night and led him out. The clear sky shone way too bright for a hangover. “At least we’re at six thousand feet,” she said. “It’s hell in the heat.”

  “Maybe, but you can’t breathe so easy up here.”

  “That’s correct,” she said. “That’s why smoking is so important.” She lit up. “If you smoke and you get hungover, you can lay off the smokes and break even.”

  “You must not be hungover.”

  “You must be new in town.” She opened the door and eased him in like he was old. She paused, reflective as the Marlboro man, then circled her beat-up truck and got in. She started it with a roar, like a woman insensitive to a machine. She drove too fast on the cobbles, all the axles and macho tires and cogs and differential U-valves clattering in appropriate backdrop for life in transition.

  “Nice car,” he said. His door opened.

  “Slam it,” she said. “It’s a piece o’ shit.”

  He slammed it. Inside felt like it sounded, like many miles over rough terrain. “You run it hard,” he said.

  She smiled. “It’s a piece o’ shit either way. Isn’t it?” She laughed, like he was old-fashioned, like he didn’t understand it was just a truck.

  “Piece o’ shit,” he said, and they pounded down Canal Street and over two blocks to get his things. The road smoothed out outside town when the cobbles eased into dirt. Past that was pavement, Mexican highway—two-lane blacktop crossing the high plateau, no gas stations, no billboards, no oil company beacons, as if corruption in this part of the world was kept under the table where it belongs. Tumbleweed, sage, cactus, rocks and some scraggly longhorns defined both the past and future here. It felt clean as a Promised Land.

  She pulled a joint from behind her ear, fired it and passed it like the good old days. He took it, eyes open to what life comes to if you’re lucky. It comes to pain and regret, to a load of coal for breakfast, over easy with a side of past love, to an old habit that can still dull the edge for awhile—to a new day and another go round.

  The truck was too loud for talk. She yelled that they were headed up to Pozos, and if they had time they would ride. He couldn’t hear, but who cared where they headed? She eyed him with concern like he might croak any time but then smiled her good smile. He wouldn’t surprise her if he did. He liked that. She put her hand on his. She liked it too; she must’ve. She’d drawn some gore with a red felt-tip on the masking-tape crucifix, so the back window signaled their own insane faith against the odds. Paisanos waved. Twenty minutes out he asked if they were close. She wagged her head. He asked if they were halfway. She yelled that Taboada was a third and San Gabriel a third, and from there to Pozos is two-fifths.

  “It doesn’t add up.”

  “Add up to what?”

  “Two thirds and two fifths. That’s too much.”

  “This trip tends to be a little long,” she yelled, firing up the joint again, pulling hard for good times and another buzz, heading up the road again.

  In awhile he could see a citadel on a hillside a mile or so off the road—ornate with medieval walls, parapets and towers in defensible alignment along the slope, with a natural ravine as a moat. A fortress with old-world charm built for missionaries but now in ruins, the compound looked ghostly and ghastly, a scene of hardship. “Pozos,” she said. It was a deserted mine; more than a mine, an encampment built in the last century to mine silver in this life for the Church, for Kingdom Come in the next life for the miners. Missionaries lived in the tower, where they oversaw the Indians working below. She said the silver brought the missionaries, who assumed the burden of wealth so the Indians could inherit the earth meekly in poverty. “Glory. Hallelujah.”

  They pulled up. She said it looked empty now but was full. They got out and walked to a row of sleeping garrets, each with a single window. “Can you feel it?” He felt it, souls working a different vein, seeking. “I come out here sometimes,” she said. “Town is full but seems so empty. This place is empty but feels busy. Huh?”

  “Yeah, huh.”

  “Come on,” she said. Back at the truck he peeled off the masking tape. He apologized. She shrugged, fired up the beast and the reefer and made dust across the plateau to the wall around the campo that grew higher on the approach. It kept outsiders out and insiders in, defending the silver from banditos who didn’t want to work.

  “It’s like now,” he said. “We’re the banditos who don’t want to work. Yes?”

  She looked sympathetic. “Oh, you’ll work.”

  Breezes swept the ruins with sighs and whispers, decomposition audible in the silence. Bottle caps paved the path from the high side to the compound, where more walls defined the hierarchy. No ceilings here except on the corner turrets facing the campo grounds and on the apartments where the priests lived. Across the hill sat more ruins of haciendas where mine owners and priests drank lemonade and tequila. Gaping shafts here and there felt like falling in a dream. Heidi and Tony rolled a boulder over and waited forever for the splash.

  Between the miners’ compound and the haciendas were barracks where women cooked and washed full-time, women who might lie down for a miner if she got caught up on cooking and washing. The priests looked away, knowing their flock needed sin in preparation for salvation. Clean clothes came once a week, which was all you needed, Sunday morning, for the Glory. She’d been here before and thought this through.

  Thirty or forty people now lived in crumbling adobes surrounded by rubbish with twisted wire nailed to scrap boards on top for TV antennas. The silver played out. The priests left instructions to keep the faith. Then they left, leaving outside contact mostly to the Coca-Cola truck in the next century. Following it ac
ross the plain two miles led to another ghost town, empty for a century except for the faces peeking around ramshackle doors and through broken windows. A tienda facing the deserted square looked different, like it was painted only a hundred years ago. The big sign said: Adivinaste. Drink Coca-Cola.

  Inside children browsed penny candies in glass jars and an old woman sold Mexican beer for a grand—about thirty cents. The children stared in awe at the miracle Tony Drury performed. The gringo magician no sooner wanted than he had. He could have anything because his pockets spewed cash. He fumbled with a handful of it and peeled off whatever it took, casually. He gave Heidi a beer and raised one for himself. They drank fast with a toast to the milestone: first beer. It soaked in like rain on a desert, returning color to the drinkers faster than cactus flowers blossom. He browsed the giant jars and grabbed candy in handfuls like a miner scooping nuggets from a mother lode. He filled the place with awe, filling the dirty little hands with candy. He and the gringa chuckled over one more cold one, having fun, playing God, feeling better. He got another round for the road—make that two. “Gracias, Senor” said the old lady, eyes down.

  Outside he stopped and went back in for another goose on the power throttle—four icy brews for a buck and a quarter in South Jesus was better than porters. You must savor the moment when it finds you, and you must stay alert to see it. He scanned the place for something to buy—to buy massively with no thought, for the fun of it. But after beer and sugar what else is left? He peeled off a few singles, greenbacks, and gave them to the old woman. “This is for more candy for these kids, after they finish the first round.” She nodded, stashing the cash. “We don’t want to go too fast.” He ignored their begging hands. “Don’t want their teeth to rot before they’re nine anyway.” She looked down, waiting for him to leave.

  Heidi had the motor running. He came out with eight more beers for the bargain, because they get more valuable down the road. He remembered a few times he would have paid ten for one. The truck rolled as his feet left the ground. “Hey, what’s the rush?” He jumped in, door squealing, bottles clanging.