Ask for Me Tomorrow

“He couldn’t speak Spanish and my English is very bad. We have been the recipients of charity before — remember the truck which carried Tula to America? — so perhaps it was merely a coincidence that the boxes came to us.”

“Coincidences happen, of course,” Aragon said. “But in my profession they’re usually viewed with suspicion.”

“In my profession, also.” The padre’s smile was merely a further deepening of the grooves around his mouth. “So we view with suspicion, you and I. I wish it were not so.”

“What happened to Jenkins?”

“No one knows or is in any hurry to find out. He had a bad effect on Mr. Lockwood. He would drive down to the village in a jeep, bringing rum and tequila and a briefcase full of drawings and blueprints and newspapers. Then after a few days he’d disappear again with more of Mr. Lockwood’s money. Anyone but Mr. Lockwood would have perceived Jenkins’ true character. He cared nothing about the villagers. He couldn’t conceal how much he despised the people who couldn’t read or write and didn’t care. And to me, who could read and write on a higher level than his own, he made unkind remarks about being kicked out of the Church. I was never kicked out. I left. I left voluntarily because I committed a carnal sin.”

The padre covered his face with his sleeve and Aragon wasn’t sure whether he was wiping away tears or sweat, or whether he was attempting to hide his shame.

“Now I have told you everything, Tomas, more than you asked. I’m a silly old man full of beer and gossip.”

“You’ve been a great help.”

“I hope so. I’d like very much to see Mr. Lockwood again. We had many pleasant conversations and we used to listen to his radio until the batteries wore out. Will you give him a message for me? Tell him he is missed. Tell him— No, that will be enough. He is missed. I wouldn’t really want him to know how much, it might make him feel bad if circumstances won’t permit him to come back.”

“You mean if he’s still in jail?”

“Oh, I’m sure he won’t be, a man of his worth, both moral and financial.”

“I’m in no position to judge his moral worth,” Aragon said. “However, I know that five years ago he needed money very badly. ‘Desperately’ was the word he used.”

“But he had friends, did he not — rich American friends?”

“Rich American friends are hard to come by, especially when you’re in trouble.”

“You said he had a wife. She is also American?”

“Yes.”

“And rich?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps he—”

“No. He didn’t. She refused to send him any.”

“That is a shame.” The padre sighed, and wiped at his face again. “So you will go first to the Rio Seco jail to look for him. And if he’s not there?”

“They must keep records.”

“Oh, Tomas, you’re a dreamer. Records of what? Of who paid how much to which magistrate?”

“The girl is the only lead I have.”

“So off you go. When?”

“I should get back to Rio Seco late tonight. Right now I’d like to look around the village.”

“I would accompany you, Tomas, but I’m a little unsteady on my feet and this is siesta time. The sun is very hot. Do you have a hat to wear?”

“No.”

“Here, you can have mine.”

“No,” Aragon said. “No thank you.” It would be unfair to the gentle little man to be reminded of him by a case of head lice.

“Have a safe journey, Tomas. Our visit has been so enjoyable I hate to see it end. Will you ever come back?”

“Not likely.”

“I’ve reached the age where anyone who lets me talk seems like an old friend. By listening to my memories, you have become part of them. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I like the idea very much.”

“Goodbye, friend.”

“Good health and God’s blessing, padre.”

The two men shook hands. Then Aragon started walking down toward the pier and the row of shacks beside the abandoned fish cannery.

The severity of the sun had closed the village down as completely as if a bad storm had struck or an epidemic of plague. There was no sign of activity anywhere, even on the sloop riding at anchor in the bay. Only the sound of a crying child from inside one of the shacks indicated that they were occupied.

Beyond the shacks, on a knoll overlooking the bay, he found what he was looking for, the beginning — and the ending — of Jenlock Haciendas. “Streets would be put in,” the padre had said, “real streets with beautiful names carved on stone pillars.” The streets, if they had ever existed, were buried under sand, but the identifying pillars remained unchanged. The same wind that blasted the paint off Dreamboat had merely kept the pillars wiped as clean as tombstones in a carefully tended cemetery. Each way was a dead end, avenues east and west, streets north and south: Calle Jardin Encanto, Calle Paloma de Paz, Avenida Cielito Verde, Avenida Corona de Oro, Avenida Gilda.

“Avenida Gilda.” He repeated the name aloud as if the sound of it might make it more believable. The stone was perfectly symmetrical and the carving done with great care and skill in Gothic letters.