Maelstrom
Lorraine Ray
Copyright 2011 Lorraine Ray
Illuminating the canyon cul-de-sac with its headlights, a car swung ever so slowly counterclockwise and cast the humongous hobgoblin of a saguaro cactus on the bedroom drapes. As the huge shadow tiptoed away, leaning backward and lengthening, its two arms rose as though a prankster had shouted “Los manos arriba!” from the canyon below.
Behind the drapes, Bennett, Malone, and Swan’s most highly successful junior partner undressed for bed after the late-night Christmas Eve cocktail party, and at the same time his most highly unsuccessful wife, seven months pregnant, lay already curled up in their bed in the position she called The Fetal Beetle. She appeared as stiff as any well-preserved mummy under a comforter and quilt. This was proving to be one of the coldest Christmases in memory.
“Who was the old lawyer you were talking to?” asked Tim as he set his shoes in the corner near the closet.
“What?” she said.
“I heard you talking to that old lawyer from Nogales."
"Oh, you must mean Mr. Riojas.”
“What were you talking with him about? You seemed a little upset."
"I was upset. I still am."
"Well, what's it all about?"
"He happened to mention something about a person in Nogales. It was a person I met--a strange man from a long time ago. I found out who he was.”
She lay still looking into the dark. Her pupils were gleaming. Tears, perhaps, thought Tim.
“So who was he?" asked Tim as he stepped quickly to their dresser.
"A vagrant."
"A vagrant? Why is a vagrant important to you?” Tim struggled with a diamond cufflink. In the dark of their bedroom the cufflink’s mate glimmered on a silver tray.
She shrugged her shoulders. “He isn’t. He's not really very important.”
“Well?” The cufflink dropped on the tray; Tim pulled off his shirt, spread it carefully on top of his pants on the back of a chair, and slid under the covers beside her. He molded them into two spoons. “When are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“He saved my life.”
“What?”
“The man I asked about saved my life."
"When!"
"I nearly drown when I was a little kid."
"You never told me this."
"I wanted to forget about it. We were shopping in Nogales one rainy day--well, rainy doesn’t really describe it. A hurricane came up from the Sea of Cortez. That happens sometimes in the early fall.”
“You nearly drown in a hurricane? In Mexico? Is this another one of those sad stories about your parents?”
She ignored that. “You know Dad. With him it’s always hooray for Mexico! Hooray for the cheap guitars and the dusty piñatas! Hooray for the wind and the rain!”
“But a hurricane?”
“Yeah, trash was flying everywhere. We’d barely crossed the border when the wind toppled a rack of ponchos; it flipped them over and spread them out and I thought they were going to take flight like a flock of headless witches.”
“And your parents didn’t stop?”
“Three or four people warned us to. When we passed that big hotel, Fray Marcos de Niza, a man shouted, ‘Hey, folks, you’re going the wrong way! Don’t you know there’s a hurricane?’ And Dad shouted back, ‘Hurricane? What hurricane? I’ve got rum down here with my name on it.’”
“That sounds like your dad.” Tim chuckled.
“His rum,” she said. “The only reason we were with him was that every person, regardless of age, could bring in a fifth, duty-free.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, Tim. Anyway, I had the wind in my face. I was skipping on the pavement at my mother’s side, smelling the far-off scent of wet creosote and vanilla and wool. I tried to study every shop window we passed, the baskets brimming with jumping beans, the rubbery dolls in sombreros, the onyx chess-sets. Then I saw it, the ultimate window. It had a display of carved wooden fleas spread out on a beautiful blue satin cloth. There they were--fleas reading the New York Times, driving Impalas, feeding chickens, holding hands, and painting the Sistine Chapel. I tugged Mother’s dress. ‘We don’t want to do any shopping,’ she reminded me. ‘Lottie keep up!’ Dad bellowed, ‘or I’ll sell you to some toothless old hag.’”
“Lovely,” Tim said with a snort.
“Wasn’t it. And it wasn’t an idle threat to me. I could see the circles of women huddled together in the alleys, hiding the trinkets they sold in their rebozos. They were about to face a hurricane wrapped up like crepe paper surprise balls. I thought if Dad sold me to them they would put me to work selling chicle, and I was worrying about my future when one of my brothers shouted, ‘The Constipated Conquistador!’ That was what we called a crabby-faced Spaniard in a golden sun helmet that was painted on the backdrop of a photographer’s donkey cart. Seeing him meant we were near Red Horse Liquors. Dad thought they had the best price on the demijohns of rum.”
“Once we were there we gathered under the awning. ‘No dilly-dallying,’ said Dad, barreling into the shop after his precious demijohns. Mom opened her purse and handed each of us a quarter. ‘Go around to the bakeries,’ she suggested, because they were around the corner on a back street. I should have, but instead I went back after one of those fleas.”
"You still like crazy little toys, don't you?"
"Yeah, I do. And that day I ran back to where I thought the shop with the toys was. Just then the rain began falling. Ice cold drops splashed down on the sidewalk and slammed into me. I couldn’t see the shop; I suppose in my rush I had passed it. When I arrived at the bottom of Avenida Obregon, I turned around and ran back. Finally, I found it. The rain was coming down harder then.”
“There were bells tied to the shop door. When I came in, I surprised the saleswomen who were folding blouses and laughing, their hair pulled back tightly into sleek black buns. One of them was drinking from a tiny cup. I stood at the back of the window and examined the fleas. After many debates with myself, I settled on one dressed in a serape and strumming a guitar.”
“When I came out with my flea, the rain pounded the sidewalks. Water poured off the awnings; cold streams of it spurted unexpectedly out of drainpipes that led from the high roofs of the old adobes. The street had flooded to the curb; a brown river rushed by. I began running south toward The Red Horse, which was on the other side of the main street. As I ran, I tried to find a way to crossing where the flood was shallow. Pretty soon I came to an intersection where I had to ford deep water or stay where I was. A skinny man in a madras shirt ran toward me hollering, ‘Juditha! Juditha!’ I thought he might offer to carry me. But he didn’t. He simply ran past, and for the first time I felt afraid. The water was raging down from the hills. Nogales is like a funnel at the border. I hesitated and then leaped in. I felt it above my knees, warm water. It was moving so swiftly. I waded toward the opposite curb. Halfway across, things began happening. First there were sounds. I heard a glub, glub, glub noise. That was the warning."
"Warning of what?"
"The manhole cover shot up. Trash spewed out. There were bottles, toilet paper, and cigarette packages. It all came up. The water rose to my thighs. Then everything that had come up started going down. Round and round, the water just began turning and turning. The sewer guzzled down the contents of the street. For a moment I felt hypnotized by the open sewer hole. It was like a great navel, a link to another world. Even the heavy manhole cover was caught in the maelstrom.”
"That must have been terrifying."
“You have no idea. I was so afraid. The water tugged at my knees. It w
as hard to keep going. I lost my footing and fell. I tried to stand up. Then the whirlpool grabbed me and shoved me sideways, toward the sewer hole."
"Oh my God."
"My mouth opened, but no sound came out. For some strange reason I was very careful to hold the little flea out of the water. I slid toward the hole again. I was heading for it and I knew if I went down the sewer I would drown.”
“What saved me at that moment was that I fell into a pothole. I sat on the muddy bottom of it. The pull of the water jammed me against the lip of the crater. But I wasn’t safe. If I didn’t go down the sewer, I was still sitting in the middle of the street and there was a real danger that I would be run over by a car.”
“I thought I would call out to someone. But there was no one to call to. I sat there without moving. There were things floating by. The fruit from a barrel cactus bobbed past looking exactly like a tiny yellow pineapple."
"Isn't it strange how you remember little things from scary times," said Tim. "But nothing as bad as this ever happened to me," he added.
"Or to me ever again. And that was when I saw him. He came down from the hills somewhere above the border, wading through water that was moving so swiftly I could have sworn he was walking down the crest of a waterfall. He wore a long brown cape like a musketeer or a monk or something. The cape dragged the surface of the water. His hair was all matted, dark underneath and light on top. But it was his face that was so unforgettable. Oh, Tim, he had such a long face. With heavy eyelids and such a grim expression. As he walked he dropped his head forward as though he had looked at the ground so long he could never look up again.”
“When he came near, I smelled a foul mixture of urine and garbage. The closer he came the more it seemed he was looking down at me. Nothing about my plight seemed to register with him, though, and he didn’t speak. Then he stopped. He came near me and leaned down. I shielded my face, thinking he was going to strike me. Instead, his hands slipped under my arms and he lifted me up. Mud and water slid off my legs. He began carrying me. For a moment I thought he might take me to the sewer hole and drop me in. But no. He took me up the street. Near The Red Horse. He set me on the curb. Drenched. My patent leather shoes filled with mud. Grass and twigs. A chewing gum wrapper. Mud in my shorts and grit in my shoes. I washed them. I washed them off, I was thinking, 'dip them in the water at the edge of the curb and--'”
Tim cleared his throat. “So you found out something about him?”
“Yes. I just did."
"What?"
"I found out he was well-known in Nogales. He was born into a very wealthy family, but he chose to live on the streets. They called him Las Cuerdas Marrones, Brown Strings, after his stringy brown hair and brown ripped cloak.”
“Was he mad?”
“No. Not at all. Mr. Riojas said he was completely sane. It was tragic love that made him behave that way. Mr. Riojas thought he had a romance with a girl who rejected him and that drove him to the streets to wonder around, dirty and alone. He lived in one of the caves east of the border crossing. The old prison where Geronimo was kept. Mr. Riojas gave him money whenever he needed it."
"Such a sad, romantic story,” said Tim.
“He died a few years ago. When I heard about him, heard that he was dead tonight, it's so strange, I didn't feel safe anymore, Tim. I knew in my heart that I'm not safe. And I don't feel safe or happy about our baby. The world is too awful, too dangerous. I don't want to bring life into it. I don't want to be responsible."
"But you are safe. It's Christmas, the safest, happiest time of year. Don't let a thing like this get you down."
"I can’t help it."
"Don't let it."
"I don't feel safe anymore. I don't feel like our baby is safe.”
“You are.” He pulled them together tightly. “You’re safe. Perfectly safe. Completely and totally safe.”
"No, never again. Not anymore."
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Lorraine Ray is an avid reader and writer. She lives in an adobe home in the center of Tucson, Arizona with her husband and daughter.
Connect with Lorraine Ray at her Google blog (coming soon), at Facebook, or Twitter: https://twitter.com/@LoRay00.