Mexico - 4. Chapter 4 of 16

As I walked toward the hotel -- in my good traveling jacket and tie -- Anne and her father drove in. We waved as three bellboys rushed to their car, but we made no attempt to speak. Still, maybe they thought more of me, being properly dressed. Earlier, I’d been in an old T-shirt and jeans.
The restaurant was surprisingly large. It was a couple of stories high, with grilled balconies, tall French windows, and huge, dim chandeliers. There were probably over a hundred tables, full of comfortably retired Norte Americanos. On the stage, a small orchestra played “Sunrise, Sunset.”
“Not exactly native,” I joked to the maitre d’.
“Excuse me, señor?”
“I was hoping for something more... Mexican.”
He didn’t even smile.
As “Sunrise, Sunset” morphed into a Cha-Cha, I tipped maitre d’ to seat me away from the band. As expected, the menu was completely American, so I ordered steak. Why fight it? As a waiter filled my water glass, I cribbed from the Spanish text I’d brought to study over dinner and asked, “¿Es... adviso...beber...el aqua?”
“Our water’s bottled in Colorado, señor.”
I could have stayed in Iowa.
But dinner was fine. The restaurant was the perfect Chicago steakhouse. As I began dessert -- apple pie and Vanilla Bean Hägan Das -- the Ingrams and their future son-in-law arrived. They were dressed far better than I was, though still casually. But it seemed comfortable for them. Anne practically glowed in the dim light. Her fiancé’s face was temporarily turned away. I waved, but when they didn’t respond, I figured they couldn’t see me. And soon they were seated at a far table as part of a larger group.
No problem. My adventure with them was over. Still, when I asked for my check, the waiter seemed confused.
“My check,” I repeated. “Maybe you call it something different here.” I flipped through my Spanish book.
“I understood,” he said, perfectly. “But your dinner’s paid for, señor.”
I laughed. “I think you’ve made a mistake. I’m not staying at the hotel. This can’t be charged to my room.”
The waiter nodded and simply pointed to Mr. Ingram. At that moment, he was waltzing to “Memory” with his wife.
I laughed again. If I’d known they were going to pay, I would have eaten even better.
But I tipped the waiter, who I’m sure was already being tipped, and he took it happily. Then I made my way across the restaurant.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, thanking Mr. Ingram.
He grinned. “It was the easiest way...”
“I already told your wife...”
“And she told me. But when I saw you eating here, I decided to ignore her.”
At that moment, Mrs. Ingram spun away from her husband to dance with me. “You’re turning into another stubborn man,” she teased.
“I think I’ve always been that way.”
“Why didn’t you join us for dinner?” she went on.
That embarrassed me. “I didn’t know I was asked.”
“I sent the boy after you.”
“You did? He must have missed me.”
She frowned. “That’s not what he said.”
I shrugged. “Then he must have asked someone else.” I grinned. “I wonder who’ll be turning up?”
She laughed at that, and as we danced, I thanked her again.
“Where are you staying?” she wanted to know. She quickly guessed it wasn’t the hotel.
“Nearby. A nice enough place.”
“Clean?”
“My mother could eat off the floor.”
She laughed again. At that point, Mr. Ingram cut back in. He’d been standing nearby, talking with someone who looked like a businessman.
“At least, have coffee with us,” his wife went on. “You can sip as we eat.”
It seemed rude to say No, so I was soon sitting next to Anne. She introduced the other people at the table but not her fiancé. I guess she thought we already knew each other.
There were two older couples and five children. Two of the kids were our age. The others were in their teens.
When I ordered coffee, Mr. Ingram shook his head, and I got a margarita instead.
“Have a few of those while we eat. After that, you’ll need coffee.”
I managed to hold it to two.
And dinner was fine. A little tricky because I didn’t really know anyone, and they were mostly talking about politics from opposite my point of view. But I was careful not to offend, and they smiled a lot. At one point, while they ate, Mrs. Ingram had me retell the border patrol story.
“This is so funny,” she said. And everyone agreed.
All through dinner, I kept watching Anne’s fiancé. It was easy. He was sitting right across from me. But he almost never looked back. Either he was smiling at Anne, or he was focused on somebody else.
He had really nice eyes, which I hadn’t realized before. That afternoon, he’d always worn sunglasses.
After dinner, I thanked the Ingrams once more, this time figuring I absolutely wouldn’t see them again. “Anything you need,” Mr. Ingram assured me. “As long as you’re here.”
“Anything,” his wife echoed.
Anything?
I turned to the future son-in-law and tried not to make a big thing of it. “I’m really sorry,” I started, “but I didn’t catch your name this afternoon. And it’s been bugging me all through dinner.”
He smiled but seemed confused.
“A truck went by,” I explained. “On the highway. This evening, no one’s mentioned you directly. Not that I could hear.”
“Mark,” he told me. “Mark Haines.”
I simply nodded and let it go. Then I kissed Mrs. Ingram, kissed Anne, and strongly shook her father’s hand. Anne soon led Mark to the dance floor, as Mr. Ingram did the same with his wife. As I moved away, I heard Anne ask Mark, “What did you two talk about in that car?”
Nothing, of course. He could almost not have been there. Except I was mainly telling my story for him.
The short walk to my motel was fine. It was mid-evening, not even ten. Though it was still warm out, and the sky was clear. I thought about finding the beach. It couldn’t be far, and it would be fun to walk barefoot, in the water, with my pants legs rolled. Then I thought about getting rolled myself.
In my motel room, I packed away my jacket and pants, then I read. One of the newspapers I’d bought, in Spanish. I got about every tenth word. When that finally became too frustrating, I brushed my teeth using bottled water, then turned off the ceiling light.
Except the pull cord killed both the fan and the light, and the room was just stuffy enough to need the breeze. I tried opening the windows, but they were bolted shut. So I turned the fan and the light back on, then carefully unscrewed the single bulb, licking my singed fingers as I did.
It was still better than sleeping in my car.
Though the ceiling light wasn’t the only light in the room. There was an outside flood, on the wall right beside my door. It brightly lit the frosted glass panel. Inside, a thin cafe curtain seemed mainly for decoration.
I pulled on my jeans and opened the door. I studied the fixture, but there seemed no way of getting into its locked metal cage to unscrew the bulb. Closing the door, I scanned the room. There was no blanket, only the bedspread. Even the shower curtain, folded, would merely add a few layers of diffusion. I draped the bedspread over the curtain rod, figuring a little help was better than nothing. But even its light weight pulled the rod to the floor. After putting that and the café curtain back up, I opened the door again. The spread was just thin enough to go over the door and let it close. And it blocked enough light.
I stripped, got into bed, and hoped for sleep -- with no dreams of Chris. They’d been a repeated problem. I tried thinking about Mark. Not that I had anything going for him, or even for straight guys. Mainly for distraction. He’d spoken well at dinner. He’d always seemed intelligent. But trying to focus on Mark was a waste. I didn’t really know anything about him, and I knew way too much about Chris. That’s why I dreamed about him every night.
I could be tired. I could be drunk. Chris cut through.
And it was often the same dream:
I came home, late afternoon, after teaching.
I parked in the driveway. Chris’s car was on the street.
I entered our house.
“Chris?” I called.
No answer.
No one in the kitchen.
No one in the dining room.
I crossed the living room and headed upstairs.
“Chris?”
Chris. Upside down on the stairs. His face between a pair of pink feet.
“Chris!”
“Phil!”
“Shit!”
The last, another guy’s voice. Definitely more recognizable than his butt.
These are the things that end marriages, let alone relationships.
The dream rarely varied, though I’m not sure it was accurate. It’s just the way I remembered.
But this time, just as I began to explode in this familiar nightmare, there was an unfamiliar noise.
A door opened.
The room was full of Light!
Was I awake?
No, I was still in bed.
Barely covered by the sheet.
A young couple stood before me.
Framed by the open doorway.
Mexican, I think.
But the light is behind them.
I can’t see their faces.
But they’re as surprised as I am.
Suddenly, the man speaks.
In English.
Without an accent.
“Oh, I am sorry. We didn’t know this room was occupied.”
And the door shuts.
Quickly erasing them.
But leaving the Light!
Then glass breaks.
Outside.
Darkness.
Sheet trailing, I leap for the door.
Open it.
The couple rushes away.
Laughing.
Holding hands.
“What the...?”
“Mark?” I call.
“Anne?”
No, they’re Mexican.
I think.
Am I awake?
I’m sure of it.
The bedspread’s on the floor.
I start to hang it again.
Begin to close the door.
But there’s no need.
There’s no light.
I hurl the bedspread to the corner.
I’m still asleep.
“Fucking Chris!”