Crowned Heads (20 page)

After breakfast she would not go to the beach, but would sit on her patio, staring at the water, fighting tears whose sudden appearance again dismayed her. When she felt like it, she would get into the hammock and loll, staring impersonally out at the bay, feeling strangely detached from what Nan’s travel brochure had described as the “hidden jewel of the Mexican coast,” and wondering why she was so unmoved by it. It was like another form of waiting; but for what, other than the
MorryEll
and Richard, it would have been difficult to say.

She saw Emiliano coming out of the water, brownly glistening, in his white trunks. She went onto the beach then, and sat under her umbrella. When he went by with his spear gun she said she’d never seen one, could she have a look? While he obliged her, pointing out and explaining its various mechanisms, she kept noticing little details about him, that his fingernails were trimmed and polished and that his hands were like a sculptor’s, or a pianist’s. She had friends who talked at lunch about checking a man’s thumbs as a clue to the size of more intimate parts, but she’d never believed it. She particularly liked his feet. She thought it remarkable how the foot was overlooked as a beautiful part of a man’s anatomy. She would have to get the word for “foot” in Spanish from her phrase book and surprise him with it. That afternoon she asked Emiliano if she might borrow his fins and goggles “just to see what it was like.” It was an unfortunate experience, and caused her such a shock that she talked of it for days. There were few bathers other than Cupie and little Sashie in the water at the time. Lorna had waded out to her chest, with her head down, peering through the oval glass, with the plastic snorkel in her mouth, when she saw going past her range of vision a long dark undulating line, like a length of telephone wire. What was attached to the other end of this wire was the most enormous and horrifying creature imaginable, the size of a grand piano, a great batlike creature whose tail the “wire” was, slowly skimming along the bottom. The awful wings as they rose and lowered were black on top and palely spotted underneath, and the thing had a hideous bat’s face. She thrust her head from the water and screamed. She splashed her way to shore, crying to Cupie to get Sashie out. Thank God for Emiliano, who came running, and when she told him what she’d seen, he said it was a stingray. He ran for his spear gun, took his fins and snorkel, and his goggled head disappeared in the water. Half an hour later he had shot the ray, and they dragged the ghastly thing up on the beach. They showed her the sharp spear near the base of the tail, which was its poisoned weapon, then some of the villagers came and took the ray with them and cut it up for stew.

She didn’t go in the water anymore.

To recover, she spent the remainder of the morning in the library, reading. She had given up
Centennial
in favor of
Atlas Shrugged,
a dog-eared paperback someone had left behind, its pages stained with suntan oil, but she had read
The Fountainhead
and thought she might like it.

Later she saw Rosalia in a hammock near the office, under the tree where the parrot lived. Cradled one in each arm were Sashie and a Mexican child, looking happy as Rosalia sang a song and they sang along with her. From inside the office Lorna could hear the plock plock of Steve Alvarez’s typewriter. When Rosalia went back to work Lorna left the library and walked over. She gave each child a hug, then had the little Mexican get out of the hammock until she got in, the way Rosalia had been, and then coaxed the Mexican child back in and put an arm around each of them, telling Sashie she mustn’t be afraid of the stingray. Oh, Sashie said, she wasn’t afraid; but Lorna was. Well, Lorna said with a nervous laugh, it was such a big thing, and so unexpected. She gave them hugs again, but the children wriggled and the hammock swung uncomfortably. She tried singing to them as Rosalia had, but they didn’t like that and they scrambled out, leaving her alone in the hammock. Steve Alvarez was standing in the office doorway, watching. One of the dogs came ambling by and she called it to her and made a great show of petting it; then the dog went away, too.

The excursion boat had brought some new guests: four young men from Los Angeles, tennis players en route to an important match in Mexico City. Lorna thought they couldn’t be much older than Jeffrey, but she wished Jeffrey were more like them. They were all very good-looking, with healthy, lean bodies and exuberant spirits. Miriam Seltzer evidently thought they were good-looking, too, for when Lorna came out on the beach next morning, she saw the young men playing volleyball, and Miriam had stationed herself by one of the net posts, applauding the game. She sat with her knees up but spread, showing the crotch of her bikini, and she kept one hand dangling in front of her, which rather than obscuring the area only called attention to it. She was the most vulgar type.

Lorna talked with one of the boys later that afternoon. She stayed under her umbrella with a towel covering her knees, reading. The tallest of them came over and introduced himself. Very polite. His name was Bud, and he asked if they could all have her autograph for their girlfriends back home; she said she would be happy to oblige.

She was waiting at the bar, wearing her shocking-pink Pucci and her white sandals and the pearl earrings Brownie had bought her in Japan during their reconciliation trip. They all came in with Bud in the lead, wearing shorts and alligator shirts, and they reminded her about the autographs. She was prepared, had brought her own pen and four eight-by-ten glossies, which she signed individually, pretending not to notice the other guests watching. There were lots of jokes and good-natured fun, and she accepted the boys’ invitation to sit at their end of the family table. After dinner, when the other three, Gil, Dick, and Barry, went to the bar, she and Bud stayed at the table having coffee and watching the moonrise. Emiliano was tending bar, so she laughed a lot and was animated, bending forward over the candle so it caught her features, and sometimes touching Bud’s hand to emphasize a point. Then she grew serious, leaning her cheek on her hand and looking out toward the bay with a faraway expression. Why so pensive? Bud asked. She shook her head. Oh, she replied, I was just thinking. She talked about meditation and how very much it was helping her, and he listened with interest. Then she allowed herself to be persuaded to join the others in the bar, and she watched Emiliano making drinks; he seemed not to notice at all how much the center of attraction she was. She allowed Bud to put his arm around the back of her chair, and she turned several times and spoke in his ear—the music was quite loud—her lips brushing against him, and then she let Emiliano see that several times Bud had taken her hand.

She thought she would make herself conspicuous by her absence during the flamenco, and asked to be excused. She stood at the edge of the patio, looking out across the beach and the bay, with the flames of the tiki torches leaping around her, the breeze lifting the corners of her Hermès scarf, and thought she made a pretty picture. Naturally Bud came after her and begged her to stay. No, she laughed, she had to get her beauty sleep. Aw, he said, you’re too beautiful, you don’t need sleep. But she prevailed, and he walked her back to her cabaña. It was then that he mentioned that he knew Stan Wyckoff. Lorna felt a sharp chill at the mention of the name, but passed it off lightly. Ah, she said, how
is
Stan? She didn’t care at all for the way Bud laughed; obviously he’d heard something. On the cabaña patio he tried to kiss her, but she pulled away from his arms and said a firm good night.

Later she could hear the flamenco music and the clatter of Emiliano’s heels on the floor and the staccato clap of his hands and his Spanish cries. The passion of the dance. She creamed her elbows and performed her other nightly beauty rituals, put on her nightdress and got into bed. She read by the kerosene lantern, absently rubbing the “frownie” paste-on between her eyebrows. Finally she went to sleep. She was awakened by footsteps along the walkway, then a light rapping at her door. It opened and she saw a dark shape. Hi, Bud said. She could tell he was drunk. He came to the bed and looked down at her. She had cream on her face and curlers in her hair; she told him to leave, but he sat on the edge of the bed. She drew away and when he leaned down to her she struck him, telling him to go. I’m not that kind of person, she told him. Aw, come on, he said, he knew Stan, didn’t she get it? She didn’t have to be so careful—he wouldn’t tell. He left only when she threatened him with Steve Alvarez. Okay, he said, laughing; he’d be around if she changed her mind.

Next morning they were over near the horse
palapa,
where the three secretaries sat, and they all played volleyball. Miriam Seltzer was with them, and they lunched together, and went to the village in the afternoon. They laughed a lot, and made a very cozy group. That evening they were at the bar, drinking coco locos. Lorna put on her blue caftan and went for a solitary walk along the beach, stopping now and then to examine something the water had washed up. She ate alone that night, resuming her solitary window table, and bringing her book with her. She thought Bud might have apologized for his behavior, but he didn’t, and Miriam was dancing with him after dinner. Lorna returned to her cabaña, and whenever she went out onto her patio she could see them, over on the beach on blankets, smoking pot in the moonlight. Very romantic, she
didn’t
think.

The next morning she awoke feeling irritable and with a headache. She didn’t go to breakfast, but sat on her patio, needlepointing. She knew she ought to meditate, but somehow she couldn’t concentrate. There were some plantain leaves hanging down, partially obscuring her view, and she had asked the gardener several times to cut them, but in
mañana
style he had neglected to do it. She tore them away, and when the gardener came by he saw the leaves on the walkway. He looked at them, then picked them up and carried them away. Later, Steve Alvarez spoke to her about breaking down the plantain trees. She didn’t care for his tone and told him as much. She decided that despite Cupie, she definitely didn’t like Steve. She knew the type—sharp and opportunistic—and she didn’t like the elaborate pains he took in referring to “L.A.,” saying what a wild place it was and that he knew a “lot of people” there. The implication was clear: Bud had said something to him about the Stan Wyckoff business. She had noticed that Steve’s hands often trembled; he drank a lot, and she’d heard about how northerners went to seed in the tropics; all those coco locos. She didn’t like him at all.

Next day at lunch she heard talk among the tennis players and the secretaries of taking a ride up the mountain. She hurried to Pedro, the horse man, to reserve a mount, since she had never seen the view, but found that all the horses were taken; she would have to settle for a burro. The party was already starting by the time she had changed into her jeans, and she clambered awkwardly onto the beast’s back, with no way of showing what a good horsewoman she could be. Miriam had a horse, but jogged in the saddle like a sack of potatoes, and made the mistake of wearing shorts, which only revealed how fat her thighs really were. They were all up ahead, while the burro plodded patiently behind with some day-trippers off the excursion boat, and she had to listen to their talk all the way up the hill.

The view was most spectacular at Pat O’Connor’s house, or across the way at the Tashkents’. When they got there, Lorna stayed aloof from the others, preferring to absorb the splendors of the vista alone, until Bud came over. How ya doing? he asked, trying to be friendly. She adopted a cool attitude. When he asked what the matter was, she demanded to know what he had said to Steve Alvarez about her. He denied having said anything, but she didn’t believe him. She moved away, trying to hear what Pedro was explaining to the group in his bad English about the high peak, the Sleeping Maiden—something about the
conquistadores
arriving, and a legend about a temple which they had plundered, and how in bringing the gold down, some greedy Spaniards had drowned in the river, which was why it came to be called the River of Gold. Lorna was more interested in the view—you could see the lagoon filling, and the thatched roofs of the hotel, and she could pick out individual figures. One she had already recognized, Emiliano in his white trunks. He had been talking with some people on the beach; now she saw him come around behind the kitchen and enter the cinder-block cubicle he shared with his brother, Benito. He did not come out again, but then Lorna saw someone who was unmistakably Rosalia going in where Emiliano had already gone, and not coming out either.

The party was already mounting for the descent when Lorna turned away. The sun was hot, her legs were sore, and she regretted having wasted her time on the trip. She regretted the burro more. As slow as it had been coming up, the creature was maddeningly balky going down. He jolted her over the rocks, causing her to sway and lurch, and she was glad she was last in line so no one could see her. Up ahead was Miriam, riding beside Bud, and of course they were laughing. She was more certain than ever that Bud was talking about her.

She had dropped well behind when, from around a bend in the trail farther back, she heard the nicker of a horse. Turning, she saw the man called Ávila, coming down the path; she urged her burro to the side, to let him pass. The great brim of his sombrero was tilted downward over his brow, shadowing his eyes, but he tipped it as he went by, and drew his lips back from his teeth, showing the gold. He said nothing, but went on, a donkey following, and on its flanks hung two softly jogging cloth sacks, under which were curving shields of leather. Not birds, she thought; snakes. Her burro shied as Ávila went by. Then, when he had gone, the burro trembled all over and refused to move, but only stood in the path, twitching his ears. The others were going on; shouting for Pedro, she got off and tried to tug the burro into motion. She found a stick and shook it in the animal’s face, but it wouldn’t look at her. She was close to crying, and then she did cry, and hit the burro on the rump with the stick. It moved, but not much. She went on hitting it and crying until Pedro rode back and grabbed the stick out of her hands. He ordered her into the saddle, and took the reins, and the burro followed along docilely behind the horse. She didn’t look at the others when they caught up to the party, and she tried to explain about the snakes, and the man called Ávila.