Category Archives: Wolf Tales

By Alejandro De La Garza

This is it?  This is Ixtapa?  The sunny coastal hamlet in the gleaming brochures and sensuous television commercials?  Ah, yes, I told myself, travel agents must reside in the same slimy pantheon as politicians and lawyers.  A gallery of potted plants and brilliant flowers crowded the hotel entrance, welcoming us to their humble abode.  I glanced back at the barely-visible beachfront, focusing on the whitish-gray sky through the steaming temperatures.  I’ve been fooled.

I’d traveled to this small, unimposing community on México’s Pacific coast in September 1991; seeking that elusive utopia, far away from my suburban Dallas home and as close to nirvana as possible in one week on a banker’s salary.  I’d come alone – something I wouldn’t do today – but, at the time, México still harbored the purest of romantic ideals; where it seemed you could find true love, or make the perfect voyage into a new life.  My only previous excursion to México had been amidst a spring break romp on South Padre Island four years earlier.  I drove down there with a college friend and we stayed in our own personal beachfront hotel – my car.  We befriended two guys from another school and joined the collegiate masses for a couple of brainless day trips to Matamoros, just south of Brownsville.  Aside from babysitting my companions while barhopping in Matamoros, dining on Alaskan king crab at a South Padre restaurant, getting mired in the sand as the tide came in one night and trying to imagine how my brutal sunburn would metamorphose into a hyper-masculine, babe-magnet tan, that voyage was a nauseous blur.  But, I wanted the Ixtapa trip to be different and sedate; much more therapeutic, perhaps mildly adventurous – in other words, devoid of Americans acting stupidly.

Quiet and isolated, Ixtapa once was a simple fishing village; an ambience that lingered with a sense of fierce vigilance.  It had no five-star restaurants, gleaming shopping malls or world-class golf courses.  There really wasn’t much beyond the hotels lining the beach and a bevy of eateries and shops scattered throughout town.  It had neither the Americanization of Cancún, nor the crowds of Acapulco – and I liked it that way.  I hate shopping (even for groceries); golf – like bowling – really isn’t a sport; and Dallas has plenty of bars and nightclubs.  I hadn’t traveled much in my life – still haven’t – but I know what I want in a vacation spot.

I flew into neighboring Zihuatanejo and climbed aboard a colorful, seemingly fragile bus that traversed a narrow, roller-coaster highway; stopping occasionally to drop off people at various hotels.  Mine stood at the end of the otherwise scenic coastal route.  A slight breeze made the flowers outside the hotel entrance dance.  But, I didn’t feel festive when I saw that dismal skyline; wondering if a hurricane was creeping up the coast to destroy the paradise I desperately sought.

The young lady at the front desk greeted me with the same enthusiasm as the plants, and a talkative young man led me to my room.  When I tipped him a few pesos, he reacted as if I’d given him my life’s savings.  The nondescript, American-style room sported no balcony, and I grew even more despondent, squinting at the increasingly dark sky.  But, while standing alone in that dim light, a distant rumbling noise gently rolled onto the beach, up over the trees and into my ears.  I stepped closer to the window, realizing it was a sound that could soothe any soul – the pounding surf.  The heavy water dropping onto the shores rendered me catatonic.  I’d never seen or heard the Pacific Ocean up close and I closed my eyes, forgetting for that moment – for several moments – how ominous the sky appeared.  That drumming sound enveloped me and held me tight.  It’s okay, the waves seemed to whisper.  Everything will be alright.  Trust us.

I jumped into a swimsuit and hurried my pale form onto the beach.  I stopped at the sight of the massive silvery tides cascading onto the shoreline – relentless and unstoppable.  I’d hate to get caught up in that mess, I thought; yet daring myself to charge into it.  I guess I should make the best of it, I said with strained cheeriness, and began jogging up and down the beach; briny sprays stinging my face.  And, through the low-hanging clouds I spotted a large rocky edifice some distance offshore; a dome of dark nothingness that piqued my curiosity.  But, only for a moment – the towering surf held my attention, as amazing as it was frightening.  With each stride, though, the sky darkened, the wind intensified and the waves grew bigger.  Paradise, paradise, paradise!

My first couple of nights were uneventful; disappointing actually.  No hurricane had set its sights on the village, but a stubbornly mild-mannered tempest had.  Steady rain began falling later the same day I arrived, and I sat morosely in the hotel’s cantina that evening, consuming one Cuba Libré after another.  As a small gray-haired man played the piano, a group of people lounged nearby, talking and laughing loudly.  I listened to the sound of the steady rain percolate in through the open doors.  It was alternately depressing – since it seemed my brief vacation was ruined – and soothing, since I love the soft tempo of nocturnal rainfall.

The constant rain agitated the ocean, and – high up in my room – the sound of the waves hurtling onto the beach lulled me back into a state of tranquility.  Lying naked on the bed in the darkness – my brain marinating in rum – I felt awed that the drumbeats of those swells could reverberate this far away.  Perhaps they sensed my frustration with the dreary weather and made enough noise to ease my displeasure.  Or, maybe that’s just what they’ve been doing for eons – humanity be damned!  I smiled and reached for the TV remote.  You won’t need that, the waves snapped; not here!  Of course not.  I could see enough Mexican soap operas – replete with overly dramatic tales of the 1910 Revolution and faux blonde women – back home.  That would be like traveling to France to order a hotdog.  Stay with us, the waves said quietly, and give us time.

They were right.  By the third day, the rain had stopped.  Clouds still littered the sky, but the air was humid.  As vendors peddled their goods along the sand, I ran up and down the beach, frolicked in the rough seas and watched birds float aimlessly in the gray-white sky.  Yes, yes!  This is it!  This is what I had in mind!  This is what I’d envisioned about Ixtapa!  I dropped to the surf’s edge and let the water wash over me; the sun’s rays cascading from above.  Okay, so the sun’s rays had to battle the clouds, but I was still ecstatic.  This, I said mirthfully to myself, is what I wanted – exactly this.  And, I wanted everything else to work out for me down here, too.  Paradise, paradise!  Like most men, I’m relatively easy to please.

As I wallowed in the cool seawater, my eyes drifted to the nearby patio bar – too near I eventually found out.  But, all good beachfront hotels must have a bar within stumbling distance of the shore, especially in México.  I began imbibing in high-octane margaritas; thinking tequila was a nectar of the Aztec gods, alongside molten chocolate.  And, since I’m part Mexican Indian, it must be okay.  ¡Oye, cabrón!  This isn’t Matamoros!  But, after a few drinks, the churning waves soon looked like my stomach felt.  I scribbled my room number on the bar tab and scampered upstairs for a cold shower.  Paradise, paradise!  Not Matamoros, not Matamoros!  My stomach finally settled, and I returned to the patio; remaining in the comfortable shade with a glass of Sprite, savoring the ocean view.  Nothing could keep me from that water.

After another day, I decided to leave the safety of the hotel and venture into town; albeit leery of falling victim to desperate criminals or microbe-laden beverages.  But, no such evils pounced upon me, as I landed on the patio of a small restaurant and devoured chicken tacos and beer.  A pair of emerald birds toyed with each other in a palm tree beside me, pecking sweetly like amorous teenagers; while a middle-aged couple languished in a distant corner, giggling and caressing each other’s hands.  The gray sky endured, and the hot air lingered.  But, I took a deep breath and realized I, too, was falling in love.

Over the next couple of days I meandered along various streets, stopped into another restaurant and perused the wares of a few gift shops.  And, while ambling through town, I noticed something unique: Ixtapa looked to be a favorite vacation spot for the locals.  México’s scrumptious secret; a gorgeous miniscule treasure undiscovered – and unsullied – by my fellow “yanquís.”  I recall encountering only one other American: a young blond man in a hotel elevator who seemed surprised when I responded in perfect English to his “How ya doin’?”  God, I thought, if he’s from Texas, too, I’ll know the Earth is too damn crowded!  But, whether at the hotel, on the beach, or in town, the people I saw and the few I talked with came from somewhere in Latin America.  I could vanish into this quiet realm, I snickered – disappear and hide forever.  Yes, yes, the town murmured like the distant waves; we’ll keep you safe.

I dined at only those two restaurants because the hotel’s food was included in the travel package.  The menu offered scores of culinary delights, but the daily buffets – breakfast, lunch and dinner – were irresistibly gigantic.  Food covered almost every spot on tables lining the edge of the dining area – enough to feed a small country, or maybe the city of Dallas.  And, the aromas – oh, God, the smells of that food! – ambushed me as I stepped off the elevators.  No, please, don’t, stop, I begged!  All to no avail.  They captured me – every day and every night – and victimized me – every day and every night.  What else could I do – say no?  In the evenings, I seemed to be served by the same waiter – an older man sporting salt and pepper hair, forest green eyes and a pleasant demeanor.  “Perfecto,” he replied, when I told him I’d partake of the buffet.  Seated by the windows overlooking the beach, surrounded by exotic floral arrangements and listening to guitars strumming softly overhead, I knew I’d discovered a glimpse of the afterlife.

That beach provided the greatest refuge for everyone – families building sand castles; an elderly couple napping in the shade of the covered patio; two young women dancing in the sea; a middle-aged male duo sauntering along the sand; and me racing aimlessly up and down the shoreline as if I had no other care in the world.  Lying at the surf’s edge for what felt like hours at one point and thinking of nothing – absolutely nothing – I begged the frothy waters to pull me into their grasp.  The ocean had made me compliant by then, hypnotizing me into a willing sense of insignificance; it seemed to have that authority.

Before I took off for the beach, I always checked my room key and wallet into a safety deposit box at the front desk where a vivacious clerk repeatedly asked if I’d met any girls.  No, I told him, I was too busy enjoying the scenery and the solitude.  I came here to experience a sense of liberty, not engage in romantic trysts.  True freedom had been a rarity for me.  I often bowed to the whims and comports of people around me; my family, my coworkers, even strangers.  A pacifist, always conciliatory, keep peace in the neighborhood, think of what others will say – a wimp!  But, as the ocean waters kneaded my flesh, they zapped such flagellations from my mind.  None of that mattered.  Ixtapa wouldn’t allow it.

During another jaunt along the beach late one evening, beneath a full moon, I came across a group of young people gathered near a cluster of rocks, looking down and chatting excitedly.  One man had a video camera propped onto a bare shoulder, and as I got closer, I saw the object of their attention: a sea turtle ambling along the sand.  Her massive flippers plowed into the powdery surface with determined ferocity until she arrived at the rocks.  Surely as perplexed as she was horrified by the ogling youths – yet unable to defy millennia of evolution – she slowly maneuvered her backside against the rocks and began digging furiously into the sand.  Then, she literally stopped and looked up at the crowd.  I stormed forward, forcing my way between two skinny girls.  “¡Oye, amigos!” I said loudly without really shouting.  I didn’t want to upset the turtle.  Everyone turned, as if offended that I’d dared to intrude on their voyeuristic escapade.  I ordered the cameraman away – “¡Retira (Get back)!” – placing a hand over the glowing light.  “¡Dejelan en paz (Leave it alone)!”  My kitchen Spanish had unexpectedly matured.  The group exchanged curious glances, but amazingly and silently obeyed.  Even the guy with the camera pointed the device downward, away from the turtle’s face.

I turned to the amphibian and dropped to my knees; almost hiding her from those leering eyes.  She finally finished laying her eggs and hurriedly covered them with sand.  It seemed she was desperate to escape and, once satisfied, began waddling back to the sea.  As she approached the water, I raced forward to pick up her tired body – a move that surely startled her as badly as the camera light – and placed her into the bubbling surf.  I darted back to the egg pit and piled more sand onto it with my feet.  Huddled into a shapeless blob, the youths had focused their attention on me.  I couldn’t see their expressions and I didn’t care.  I said nothing more to them – I had nothing more I wanted to say – and they finally disintegrated into the darkness.

I strolled to the water’s edge, hoping to see the turtle one last time, but she was gone.  The moon cast milky white splotches across the gently rolling waves, and I dropped to the wet sand; alone and again wishing the waves would just reach out and grab me.  I wouldn’t put up even a semblance of a struggle, but everyone in my life might wonder what happened to me.  Disappearing into the mist of a foreign land is psychologically enticing, but literally heartbreaking.  So I crept to my feet and meandered back to my room.

The next day, as I reclined in the surf, I found myself fixated on that rocky outcropping sitting benignly offshore – a small island.  A nature reserve?  Does México even have such things?  Maybe it was privately-owned.  No, I told myself; it’s just a tall speck of rock and sand, covered in tropical splendor – untouched and possibly unloved.  I observed birds gliding back and forth between it and the palm trees lining the back of the hotel and thought for a moment – actually several moments – of trying to swim to that island.  The sea was calm, and the sky was mostly clear.  What was on that island?  Could I swim out there and spend a day just scouting around?  No, don’t be silly.  It’s too far away.  No, it’s not!  It’s not that far.  I can see it clearly from here.

Yes, I finally convinced myself, I could swim to that island and back.  I stood and ambled into the swirling crystalline water, my eyes glued to that dollop of land just a few yards and some serious arm strokes away.  I propelled my body forward, determined to reach its virgin shores.  I could hear nothing – except the waves jostling against one another – not even the birds floating overhead or my own labored breaths.  I was certain I could reach that island and spend some time commiserating with the innocents that called it home.

But, as I plowed ahead, the island suddenly seemed to retreat; demurely at first, as if saying, ‘No, no, you can’t come here.’  I disregarded my flustered vision and continued swimming; my arms curving up and down with machine-like precision and my legs thrashing fiercely behind me.  Yet, the island kept pulling away, almost shrinking into the sea.  Then, clouds unexpectedly descended from the sky and began wrapping around it.  And, the island’s response became more direct.  ‘No, you’re not welcome!’  But, I still wouldn’t listen.  I wanted desperately to see it up close; to feel its pure cinnamon sand on my bare feet and rest quietly undisturbed.  I wanted to be a part of its sanctity; to be more isolated from other mortals.  I won’t hurt you, I assured.  I think you are incredibly beautiful.  ‘I don’t care!  Leave me alone!’

I finally stopped and – floating amidst the roiling blue green water – looked forlornly at the island.  Okay, I muttered.  I’ll leave you alone.  I meant no harm.  The clouds had covered it almost completely by now – I could barely see its narrow shores – and the water was more hostile; both joining forces to conceal the island and protect it from strangers.  Protect it from people like me.  I managed to wheel myself around like overweight people do in a water aerobics class and suddenly realized how far I’d swam from shore.  I thought of the myriad creatures viewing me with utter contempt from below.  And, I could almost hear the birds laughing above my waterlogged head.  ‘Fool!  You’re not so privileged!’  Obviously not, I conceded.  As my exhausted, sun burnt form stumbled back onto the mainland, I looked once more at the island.  It stood tall again; the sun gently caressing its peak.  I smiled.  Yes, you are so beautiful.  And, I will leave you alone.  ‘Thank you.’

On the day of my departure, the clouds finally disappeared, and the sun blazed in steaming glory.  The beachfront looked much like the brochure – crystal clear and gleaming.  Okay, I laughed.  Do what you want.  Besides, I had something more important to worry about – my flight home.  I’d awoken late and missed the bus from the hotel, so the staff summoned a taxi.  If you’ve ever heard those stories of Mexican cab drivers arriving in a beat up Volkswagen and racing at break neck speeds down narrow undulating pathways – believe every word of it!  I know I left my fingertip impressions in the cracked leather of the back seat, contemplating something I’d never thought about: physics and how velocity factored into it.  But, I didn’t miss my flight!

I returned home with bronzed skin, reddened hair and a soul thoroughly satiated by the pleasure of extreme solitude.  I didn’t have a camera back then, so I engraved that gallery of delectable memories deep into my mind and peruse my very private collection whenever I feel my brain getting cluttered.  Every seemingly mundane element about Ixtapa – the ocean, the island, the sound of the waves, the birds, even the turtle and, of course, the town’s utter isolation – are keepsakes more valuable than any glossy photo I could yank from an envelope.  And, after so many years, I find I’m still in love with a tiny fishing village that hovers quietly along the delicate border between humble reality and fantastic escapism.

© 2011

 

By Alejandro De La Garza

“Maricella, give me the baby.”

“No.”  Maricella held him tighter.

Her mother, Helen, stood in the corner, twisting her hands.  She started to speak, but Linda held up her hand.  “Maricella,” Linda repeated, albeit more softly, “please give me the baby.”

“No,” Maricella said.  “Give me a minute.”

Linda sighed heavily and traded glances with Helen.  Both women looked at the floor.  The crib sat nearby.

“Just a minute,” Maricella murmured.  They’d named him Javier, after his father.  They’d only been back from the hospital one day.  She liked the way the baby held onto his daddy’s finger.  Then, Javier, Sr., rushed away.  She didn’t know why.  Maybe he didn’t feel comfortable with the baby.  Not yet, Maricella told herself.  But, he will.  He’ll be the daddy he wants to be.

“Nine pounds, wow!” the doctor said.  “You had a monster!”

No, she thought, I had an angel.  His hair was thick and auburn, a few strands reaching to his shoulders.  So much hair; already so much hair.  “Just like his daddy,” her mother-in-law said.  “He had hair down to his shoulders when he was born, too.”

She held his hands, one at a time.  She liked the feel of his soft skin; a baby’s skin.  Like silk.

All the men were elsewhere in the house.  I guess none of them really feel too comfortable around babies, she told herself.  Oh, well.  I’m here.  Little Javier knows I’m here.  He almost wasn’t here.

It had been the scariest feeling.  Pregnant.  A simple word with big implications.  A word like no other – just like the feeling.  They were both scared – her and Javier.  Are we really ready?  Do we have enough money?  Do we have enough room?  Do we have enough time?  Too many questions.  Yes, they were both scared, but only for a little while.  Then, it began to settle into their minds.  But, it was still a little frightening.

She remembers biting Javier’s hand.  He’d reached up to caress her hair – or something like that – and she thought he was trying to cover her mouth.  She was what – seven or eight months along?  He had tried to cover her mouth, she realized later, because she was yelling at him.  It had been so hard for her and her small body.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“You’re going to have a difficult time getting pregnant,” the doctor had told Maricella.  Her cycles were irregular; her stomach muscles were weak; she was over thirty.  “Not impossible,” the doctor added with a smile, as if trying to show some enthusiasm, “but difficult.”  The first two miscarriages had been bloody and painful.  The third wasn’t so bad.  I guess she knows what she’s talking about, Maricella had said, thinking of the doctor.  But, I’ll prove her wrong.  And, she did.

It was so hard.  “You’re body will change like nothing else,” her mother had said; more of a warning than advice.  The nausea, the hemorrhoids, the swollen ankles – everything.  “And, you’re husband will start looking at other women, too.”

“I thought they did that anyway,” Maricella laughed.

She remembered that one night – or early in the morning – when she woke up gasping.

“What’s wrong?!” Javier asked, startled.  He was ready to head to the hospital.

“I’m having trouble breathing.”  She didn’t expect that.  The baby pressing up against her lungs, as if trying to be born from her mouth.

“That happens sometimes,” the doctor said with her reassuring smile.  “Try to sleep sitting up.  It may be hard at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

She really didn’t.  Has that woman ever had a baby of her own?

Linda edged closer.  Her favorite aunt had been more than just a concerned relative; she’d been a nursemaid and confidant.  She’d become a big sister.  Maricella didn’t understand why she wanted to hold the baby so badly.  Put him down for a nap?  Her mother remained in the corner of the room with knotted hands.  “Maricella,” Linda said, “give me the baby.”

She saw Javier at the doorway.  His eyes looked moist.  What’s wrong with you?  “Please give her the baby.”

“No.”  He’s sleeping.  Can’t they see that?

“Maricella…please.”  Linda again.  “Let me have the baby.”

“No!  Why?”

“Maricella,” Javier muttered.

“Stay there,” Linda said to him, as he took a step forward.

She could see her father behind Javier.  And, someone else.

“Maricella, please.”  Linda stepped forward, hands outstretched.

What was she trying to do?!  “He’s sleeping.”

“No, no.  Please give me the baby.”

“No!  He’s sleeping!”  Good God!  Surely, she’d seen a sleeping baby before!

“Maricella.”  Linda’s voice was more firm, demanding.  “Give me the baby!”

“No!  Why do you keep saying that?!  He’s sleeping!”

Her mother finally moved forward.

Javier came into the room.

“Give me the baby.”  Linda’s hands had reached under her arms.

Oh God!  “No!”

Javier’s hands landed softly atop her shoulders.

“You need to give me the baby,” Linda said, looking into her eyes.

“No!”

But, Linda had grabbed him.

Javier wrapped his arms around her torso.

“What’s wrong with you?!”  Maricella had never screamed at Linda.

Linda’s gaze didn’t waver – but her voice suddenly trembled.  “Maricella, for God’s sake!”

“What are you doing?!”

“Maricella, please!” Linda shouted back.  “He’s dead!”

© 2010

CHRISTINA

By Alejandro De La Garza

The milky glow from the light over the neighbor’s garage door bounced off his wavy blond hair for only a second, but Christina Sanchez knew it was him – just outside her kitchen window.  Third night in a row, she grumbled to herself, closing the narrow blinds and flicking off the stovetop light.  She stepped cautiously into the den, almost expecting to see him, and piled her slender frame into a plush recliner.  She picked up a novel and tried reading, but kept glancing into the kitchen.  She closed the book.

It would have been easy enough to call the police and tell them he had returned.  Almost a year now, she realized.  She glided her fingernails over the book’s ornate cover, thinking about that night she first found the back door unlocked.  And the next night and the night after that – somehow that door became unsecured.  How many times had he watched her as she slept, as she bathed?  She closed her eyes and began trembling.  She didn’t feel the book slip from her hands.

Handsome!  Oh yes, he was incredibly handsome; an enticing vision plucked from a storybook romance.  He would caress his muscular torso, running his hands across his rippled abdomen; a silent expression, perhaps, of some deep-seated lust, or mere narcissistic arrogance.  His full lips, arranged in an intriguing pout, rendered him seemingly innocent and harmless – even as he smiled and flashed his sparkling teeth.  But when a scowl spread across that same gorgeous face, Christina realized she wasn’t dreaming.

She didn’t recognize the shirtless young man with the unkempt flaxen hair – and no one else in the neighborhood had seen him.  The media publicized a police artist’s drawing of him, but nobody came forward to say, ‘Yea, I know that guy!’  As a heightened sense of alarm gripped the area and a police car cruised the streets, Christina bought new deadbolt locks and held faith that he would be caught.  Just a matter of time, she chanted every night, curled up in bed, her body still aching – just a matter of time.  But, he managed to get inside the house twice more – and inside her mind.

She opened her eyes and looked about the den – her little house; a real home with no rent, no parking space battles, and no kids playing soccer upstairs on Saturday mornings.  He might not recognize it now – if he’d noticed anything about it.  She shook her head, as if trying to wake up, and was surprised to see the book on the floor.  She picked it up and read for over an hour, before deciding to retire for the night.

The deep, vociferous bark of the German shepherd across the street startled her awake.  “Damn dog!” she snorted, sitting up and shoving back her long auburn hair.  “What’s wrong now?”

But, she knew that dog never made so much noise for the mere sake of it, so she scooted out of bed and approached the window.  She parted the drapes only slightly, her forest green eyes peering into the onyx night, hoping she’d spot nothing out of the ordinary.  On this side, the neighbor’s tall fence appeared to merge with the roof of her house and not much could be seen out there in the dark.

She massaged her tired eyes, not certain if she should be so concerned – or scared.  She looked up to the ceiling, surprised to make out its every detail in the cool darkness, and sensed his presence.  She couldn’t see him, couldn’t even smell him, but she knew he loitered somewhere outside.  The dog had stopped barking.  She sat on the bed and tempered her arduous breathing, before slowly drifting back to sleep.

Christina’s life now revolved around only three things: her house, her regular karate sessions and her accounting career.  The job was her first out of college; her recent eighth anniversary arriving just after her 30^th birthday.  A promotion followed, complete with a comfortable raise and an effervescent assistant named June.  On Monday morning, June greeted her with a detailed spreadsheet of the weekly schedule.

“Wonderful,” Christina moaned, glancing over the document.  “Tell me this is not how you spent your weekend.”

“No, of course not,” said June.  “I spent the weekend gardening.  I did this” – she

pointed to the sheet – “last Friday.”

“Didn’t even give me a chance, did you?”

“Girl, I didn’t get one!  Oh, don’t forget about your appointments tomorrow.”

“How could I?  Back to back.”

“Always.”  She placed a hand to her forehead and sighed heavily.  “I had something else to tell you, but now I forgot.  Oh God, I think I’m already getting a headache!  These damn things come at the worst times.”

“Just like our emergency staff meetings.”

“Right.  You know, funny thing is, sometimes my husband says he can actually see the blood vessels pulsing on my forehead – whenever I get a really bad headache.  Can you believe that?”

“Oh, really?”

“Yea!  Scary, huh?  Hey, look at me real close, would you?  Think you can see something?”  She leaned forward, pulling back her salt-and-pepper hair.

Christina looked up and pretended – at least for a nanosecond – to study June’s forehead with some intensity.  “Gosh – I really can’t tell.”

“Oh, that’s okay.  I think he exaggerates sometimes.  Listen, I need to make a call.  I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Christina replied, as June departed.  She chortled and began thinking about an upcoming meeting with a client when her phone rang.  But, as she turned to it, a sharp, almost painful rumbling sensation sliced through her midsection, forcing a hand onto her stomach.  The feeling – an unpleasant mix of hunger pangs and menstrual cramps – continued for a few minutes, before finally subsiding.  She relaxed, but her skin grew warm, as if she was suddenly feverish.  She sat still, closed her eyes – and waited; waited for the sound of rushing water to tickle her ears.  And, it came – slowly and quietly, a pulsing guttural sound; as if a pipe had ruptured in a nearby wall.  And then, that too faded.  Every day, she thought, every day: the hunger pangs, the fever sensation and the sound of running water – always together; just like the sun rising.

She sighed.  Aside from June, Christina chatted with few other people, except maybe to say hello.  No more lengthy conversations, lunches, or happy hours; she was all business now.  Nothing social in almost a year, she realized.

“Oh, well,” she mumbled and suddenly recalled a recent incident.  Sitting alone in her office – the door closed, a colleague on speakerphone – she heard someone whisper,

‘What’s wrong with her?’  She looked about, startled, thinking they stood next to her, or

just outside the door.  She listened, tuning out her constituent, and heard others talking.  ‘I don’t know, but she’s been acting really strange lately.’  ‘I heard there was some weirdo in her neighborhood.’  ‘What makes you say that?’  ‘Heard it on the news.’  ‘I think something really bad happened to her.’  ‘Ssh, she might hear you.’  Odd – yet distracting.

Gradually, as the days passed, she heard more; snippets of conversations; muffled voices; barely audible.  ‘I heard it was a boyfriend.’  ‘Didn’t know she had a boyfriend.’  ‘Didn’t you see his picture on TV?’  ‘Who?’  ‘Him; that guy.’  ‘I just know he had something to do with her.’  Clearer, most everything they said; muttering quietly; trading tawdry speculations like industrial secrets.

She had the joy of actually startling a few people on some occasions.  The ‘Oh, hello’ reaction was as about as original as ‘We didn’t see you standing there,’ but it bestowed the same essence of embarrassment upon them.  In some odd way, she reveled in the various innuendoes, mildly savoring the attention; surfing through the speculative rubble.  But, only for a moment.

Sometimes, though, she thought about that shirtless blond man.  Her daily tasks would blur her mind, until his quirky grin slid beneath her drooping eyelids – and make her want to scream.  Other moments found her staring unconsciously into her computer

monitor where his face manifested as a hazy reflection.  Surprised at first – if not terrified – she finally began glaring back, her fists clenched and her face taut.

“How dare you,” she murmured through gritted teeth.  “How dare you come back.”  Didn’t he know?  Couldn’t he understand what he’d done to her?

If her job cluttered her mind with frustration, her karate regimen expunged the refuse.  The sport provided an emotional haven – long before she encountered him.  Its structured, demanding routines bore some resemblance to work, but without the drama.  Besides, the people were much nicer; especially the men.  She liked watching them; studying their movements as they engaged in mock duels, sweating and shouting.

After one particularly strenuous class, she did something different: she visited an adult video store on the edge of downtown and rented a feature containing an all-male cast.  Sprawled lazily in her recliner, her mind blank and her loins burning, she sipped on a wine cooler and relished the video.  She had taken a liking to them in recent months; extravaganzas of vicious masculine carnality that held a unique sense of eroticism for her – strangely, yet emotionally satisfying.

Then, she heard the distant bark of that German shepherd and tightened her grip on the bottle.  She muted the television and quickly relaxed her hand.  He was out there, she thought; teasing, wanting another taste of her.

He grew bolder, slithering along the flowerbeds and clawing gently at the window screens.  But when she peeked through the drapes, only the vapid night air stared back.  She could smell him now – sweat and dirt, blood and testosterone.  She could feel his grimy hands on her quivering flesh.  She arched her head back, stretching her throat until it hurt, telling herself he was only delaying the inevitable.  As hunger pangs roiled her into nausea, she knew another brutal assignation lurked with every sunset.

She awoke – not disturbed this time by the neighbor’s dog or scratchings at the window – but a painful itch in her mouth.  She lathered it with an ointment, staring at her oddly porcelain complexion in the mirror, when she noticed blood on her gums.  “Damn!  Not again!”  She gargled with mouthwash, before applying more of the ointment and slipping into bed.

But just as her conscious began to settle, a distant noise forced her back onto her feet.  She crept towards the kitchen, moving easily through the stifling darkness.  Her breathing slowed, as she stared at the back door, a wry sneer contorting her lips.  She yanked it open, a gust of spring air ushering in the aromas of bougainvillea shrubs and magnolia tree blossoms – and the pungent odor of her ubiquitous paramour.

“Come in,” she mumbled.  “Where are you?”  Silence.  She clenched her hands, staring at the lunar whiteness of the enclosed back yard.  Cool breezes toyed with her hair and gown, before another sharp itch made her retreat to the bathroom.

“Come in,” she murmured again through swigs of mouthwash.  “I want you.”  She shut off the water and listened to the deafening quiet.  Her stomach growled, as her quaking hands gripped the washbasin.  Her eyes closed and opened with the rumble of a distant car engine.

She looked out her bedroom window and up to the blue-gray clouds languishing in the sky.  “What a perfect day this will be,” she announced to her reflection in the dresser mirror.  She donned a comely burgundy skirt with matching jacket and a white silk blouse.  She had dispensed with the accouterments of makeup and fingernail polish months ago and limited her jewelry to a delicate watch and a small gold pendant.  Upon turning on her car stereo, she chose jazz music over business news and strolled into the office with a florid radiance that stunned everybody.

“God, girl!” said June.  “You must have a hot man lined up this weekend!”

“No!” Christina laughed.  “Not that lucky!”

A morning presentation found her more affable than she’d been in months, again surprising her colleagues.  ‘Did you hear her?’  ‘Haven’t seen her like that in God knows how long!’  She leaned back in her chair – the door closed – and chuckled.

Late in the afternoon, June leaned against the doorframe, looking much like a 1930’s era movie star, sans cigarette.  “Um – I’m sure you’ll say no.  But, a group of us are going to happy hour this evening – right after work.”  She tossed a faux glance at the ceiling.  “I don’t suppose you’d care to join us.”

Christina looked down at some papers and smiled.  “Oh, I think I can squeeze you into my busy schedule.”

“Say what?”

“Yes – I’ll take you up on happy hour.”

“Oh, my God!  For real?”

“Yes!  For real!”  And, she laughed loudly.

Christina laughed even more as she gathered with everyone at a local restaurant.  Her pale complexion had vanished and her smile had returned; no hunger pangs, no fever, no rushing water.  What a perfect day this has been, she thought, stepping into her car.

But, as the ribbons of red and orange illuminating the evening sky deepened into indigo, she grew anxious.  She could hear that German shepherd barking, as she pulled into the garage, and noted the dryness of the air inside the house.  Staring at the ceiling fan rotating slowly in the den, her shoulders tensed, as the color drained from her face and her stomach became knotted.  She tossed her jacket onto a couch and threw a stoic glance down the hall, before proceeding into the darkened bedroom.

When she exited the bathroom, she realized the dog had ceased wailing.  She knew, even before turning on the dresser lamp, that he stood in front of the closet door, beside an antique bureau.  He still looked the same; clad only in tight, faded blue jeans and dusty

work boots.  She stepped towards the foot of the bed, remaining against the dresser, a gaunt expression adorning her face.

“I’ve never seen you look more beautiful,” he said, his voice resonating deep and steady.

She’d almost forgotten what he sounded like.  “I know you’ve been out there.”  Her left fingernails tapped lightly on the dresser top.

“I had to see you again.”

“See me again!”  She clenched her hands and took a step forward.  She looked towards the bathroom, thinking she hadn’t shut the water completely off in the sink.  She unfurled her hands and turned back to him.  “What do you want?”

“I – I love you.”

“What?”

“I love you.  And –” he sighed “– I need you.”

“Need me?”

“Yes.”

“You love me – and you need me.”

“I do.  I need you – more now than ever.”  He looked up at her, as he approached the bed.  “I’m lonely – very lonely.”  He held up his hands, palms outstretched, as if

pleading.  “You have to understand.  I realized long ago, when I first met you, that you are the only one who can truly make me happy.”  He sighed heavily again, as if for poetic effect, his pale violet eyes burrowing into her.  She never had been able to tell what color they were.  “I came back because I could find no one else like you.  I’ve looked all over.  I’ve needed someone like you my entire life.  I’ve been watching you.”

“I know that.”  Her stomach growled.  “I know you’ve been watching me.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have.  You’re smart.  Not just beautiful, but wonderfully intelligent.  All of that – all of that makes you so incredibly perfect.”

She sat at the foot of the bed.

“That’s why I’m here,” he said, carefully placing himself beside her.  “Because I love you and I need you.  And I want to take you with me.”

“Take me with you.”

“Yes.”

“Take me where?”

“Away from here – away from all this misery.”

“What makes you think I’m miserable?”

“I see you here alone at night; every night.  You’re always by yourself.  I can hear the unhappiness in your heart.  I can see it in your eyes – even now.”

“And – you know all this from prowling around my house at night?”

“Yes,” he replied, his left eyebrow hopping upwards.  “I’m very sensitive – especially to you.”

“Where do you get this feeling of – love?”

“I don’t really know.  I don’t truly understand it myself.  It just seems – it just seems to be the natural order of things.  It’s –” he inhaled deeply “– a destiny of some kind.  That’s why I came back.  I want to give you a new life, Christina.  I want to bring you into a new world.”

“A new life?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve – given me a new life.”

“No – not yet.  Not quite yet.  It’s my gift to you.”

“Your gift?”

“Yes.”  He gently took her right hand and lifted it, as his lips separated.

Gift, she repeated to herself.

His pointed teeth became fully visible and his eyes dimmed.

“Gift,” she said aloud – and took a long, deep breath.  The running water grew louder.

His grip had become firm, but with no real effort, she wrenched herself from him and – in the same second – tightly wrapped her slender fingers around his left wrist.

His eyes widened.

“Thank you,” she whispered, wondering what he thought as her own lips parted, sharpened teeth descending slowly.  “I already have your gift.”

© 2010