Ask for Me Tomorrow

“Save the soft talk for later. Now, don’t even look at any vegetable that’s not cooked or fruit that’s not peeled. Turista is bad enough — you can pick up some Lomotil to take care of that — but infectious hepatitis is worse, in fact it’s sometimes fatal... I miss you, too... Did you know there’s a place in Mexico where Hansen’s disease is endemic?”

“What’s Hansen’s disease? On second thought—”

“Leprosy.”

“Don’t tell me any more or I’ll quit right now and send all the money back to Mrs. Decker.”

“No. I mean, we can use it. Just be careful. Hansen’s disease isn’t contagious, but pick up some halazone tablets to put in water in case of emergency. Have you any antibiotics to take with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Check the medicine cabinet for tetracycline or ampicillin. Also insect repellent, especially one containing D.E.E.T. And you’d better have your hair cut very short. There’ll be less chance of pediculosis.”

“I hesitate to ask—”

“Head lice.”

“Head lice?”

“Well, you’re not going to be staying at the Ritz, you know. Now, do you think you can remember all the things I’ve told you?”

“Sure. Absolutely. I’m making notes.”

She laughed. “You’re not really, are you?”

“I would be if I happened to have a pencil and some paper and knew how to spell tetracycline and ampicillin and Lomotil... How’s the job going?”

“Fine. Long hours, hard work, lethal food. But the kids are great. I’ve got one on my lap right this minute, a Vietnamese orphan. He’s a very sick little boy, but as long as someone is carrying him around or holding him he’s perfectly quiet. Do you suppose we’ll ever have any kids, Tom?”

“Under present circumstances it seems unlikely.”

“Circumstances change.”

“The decision will be yours, anyway. My minimal role merits only a fraction of a vote.”

“What would it be, though?”

“I’m not sure I want to take a chance on any kid inheriting my myopia or your tendency to cry at movies.”

“I don’t cry at movies anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t get a chance to see any. On my off-hours I sleep. I just plain sleep.”

“You could never sleep plain, Laurie. You sleep very, very pretty.”

“What are you trying to do, make me quit my job and come running?”

“Not on your life,” he said soberly. “I may need somebody to support me.”

“It’ll be fun, won’t it, when I hang up my shingle and you hang up your shingle.”

“At least our shingles will be together. Maybe they’ll have little shingles.”

“Tom, you’re not really beefing, are you?”

“No.”

“Honestly?”

“I’m not beefing. I just happen to miss you and wish you were here or I was there and the hell with Mrs. Decker’s first husband.”

“I love you, too. Listen, I have to go, they’re paging my number. Take care of yourself. Promise?”

“I promise to brush my teeth with beer and avoid head lice and lepers. Tell the little guy on your lap good night for me.”

“I will. Good night, Tom. I think you’re terribly nice.”

After he hung up he sat staring at the phone as though he half expected it to ring again. No matter how often or how long he and Laurie talked to each other, the conversation always seemed unfinished. He wanted to pick up the phone and call her back, but he thought of the kids waiting for her on the ward and how tired she’d sounded under the cool professional voice and how selfish he’d be to make things tougher by leaning on her.

He went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of beer out of a recapped quart bottle. It was a little flat, the kind good for cleaning teeth. He swished some around in his mouth by way of practice.

Six

Once he got off the plane in Rio Seco, Aragon lapsed naturally into Spanish. It was the language of his boyhood, his family and friends, the streets where he’d played, even his school at recess and before and after classes. During classes the official language was English. You are in the United States of America, children, and you are expected to speak the language of the United States of America. They did, when teacher was listening. When she wasn’t, the younger children said, Qué mujer tan fea, and the older ones, Chinga tu madre.

The car that he’d reserved by phone from Los Angeles was waiting for him, a compact Ford that looked older than its odometer indicated. When he checked it over, he found the oil gauge registered low, two of the tires needed air and the gas tank was only half filled. The man who seemed to be in charge at the rental agency, Zalamero, assured him that in all his years of experience in the business, almost one, such oversights had never before been detected. Zalamero spoke a mixture of Spanish and English slang sometimes called Spanglish. Aragon asked him for directions to Bahía de Ballenas.

“Bahía de Ballenas, why are you going there? It’s an el dumpo.”

“I’m thinking of buying some property.”