Ask for Me Tomorrow

“Gone. They left here years ago. They couldn’t take the boy along because the authorities wouldn’t allow it. You yourself are not from them, from the authorities?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t think I should answer any more questions. It might appear to be gossiping... When tragedy strikes, everyone likes to talk about it, that’s human nature. But it all happened in the distant past. Pablo doesn’t remember his mother. To him everything is ten minutes ago, or an hour, or at most, yesterday. Even if he were normal, no one would remind him of her. She fell from grace.”

“Does she communicate with the family?”

“No. She wouldn’t want to, anyway, but even if she did, we have no telephones or mail service. There was talk of mail service once when someone was going to build here. Nothing came of either the building or the service. No matter, we survive.”

“What about the boy’s father?”

The padre considered the question in silence, squinting out at the sky again, this time for guidance. “He was an American. You see, Tula went away for a while to America. She had an unexpected opportunity to make a fortune. A fortune around here is very little, and when Tula saw her chance to go and get a job in America, she reached out and grabbed it.”

“Who gave her the chance?”

“One Christmas a couple came along in a truck loaded with old clothes and bedding and things like soap and canned goods to distribute to the more remote villagers in Baja. Tula persuaded the couple to take her back with them. She was very pretty, not too smart, but she could talk the ears off a donkey. So the people agreed and off she went. We heard nothing from her for a year or more. Then she came back married to a rich American and riding in a veritable chariot. My saints and sinners, what a vision she was, dressed like a princess and waving from the window of the chariot. Some of the women began screaming. They thought Tula had died and gone to heaven and this was her spirit. Oh, it was a great day. Everybody got drunk.”

“What happened to the chariot?”

The padre’s excitement faded. The great day was finished, everybody was sober, the chariot in ruins and the princess a long time missing.

“It never moved again. Its wheels got stuck in the sand and the engine broke down and there was no fuel anyway.”

“And now it’s the ‘real house’ the girl Valeria referred to in her marriage plans?”

“Yes. But you mustn’t go there, you will disturb the family’s tranquility.”

“Does Pablo live with them?”

“You most certainly can’t talk to him. He doesn’t understand. He is like a parrot, only repeating noises he hears. And the family will not want to discuss Tula, because she fell from grace... But I can see you’re not hearing me, Tomas.”

“I’m hearing you, padre,” Aragon said. “I just can’t afford to listen.”

Seven

Only a few letters of the name still faintly visible on one side identified the ravaged hulk as Gilly’s Dreamboat. The wheels had disappeared into the ground and most of the windows were broken. The paint had been scratched by chollas and creosote bushes, rusted by fog and salt air, blasted off by wind-driven sand.

On the roof was an old sun-bleached, urine-stained mattress. A lone chicken sat in the middle of it, casually pecking out the stuffing. It was the only living thing in sight. Yet Aragon was positive that there were people inside watching his approach with quiet hostility as if they’d already found out the purpose of his visit. It seemed impossible, though he knew it wasn’t. In places where more sophisticated forms of communication were lacking, the grapevine was quick and efficient, and the fact that he’d seen no one outside the mission while he was talking to the padre meant nothing.

“Hello? Hello, in there! Can you hear me?”

He didn’t expect an answer and none came. But he kept trying.

“Listen to me. I came from the United States looking for Mr. Lockwood, Byron James Lockwood. Can anyone give me some information about him or about Tula?”

If they could, they didn’t intend to. The silence seemed even more profound: Tula’s fall from grace had evidently been far and final.

“The padre will tell you that I mean no harm. And I’m offering money in return for information. Doesn’t anyone want money?”

No one did. Money was of little value to people without a place to spend it or a desire to change their lot.

He waited another five minutes. The chicken pecking at the mattress stuffing remained the only sign of life.

The padre was waiting for him. He had opened another bottle of beer and his color was high and his eyes slightly out of focus.

“You’re back very soon, Tomas.”

“Yes.”

“Our people are normally very friendly to strangers. If you were the exception, I apologize.”

“I was, and thanks.”

“You remind them of bad things and they’re afraid. I am perhaps a little afraid myself. You’re searching for the American, Lockwood?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Lockwood’s wife wants him found.” Lockwood’s wife wasn’t too accurate a description of Gilly but it served its purpose.