Drowning Tucson (11 page)

He went inside the flower shop and immediately felt better when the bells on the door chimed as it closed behind him. The smell was exactly what he needed, teeming with clean, pure life. He browsed through the flowers, trying to decide which ones were the brightest and the largest and would live the longest. A teenaged boy approached him and offered him assistance, and when Manny told him his requirements for the perfect bouquet, the boy dashed toward the coolers that lined the wall and motioned for Manny to come over.

These are the best flowers, he said, waving his hand over them. We only import them once a month but they last forever. He removed baskets filled with iris and cymbidium orchids and lilies and birds of paradise and plucked one from the bunch and handed it to Manny. The birds of paradise looked like a flock of cranes frozen in the moment of liftoff. He loved the way they seemed to be a cycle of life. How the stems morphed into crane bodies with wings shooting off of them. He told the boy to wrap them up. The boy took the flowers to an old man who sat behind the counter reading the newspaper. The old man smiled and punched the price of the flowers into an antique cash register with buttons like a typewriter. Manny paid with cash and, after he was given his change, went over to sit by the front window and wait for his flowers to be wrapped.

Across the street was Reid Park, Tucson’s version of Central Park. Ponds, streams, golf. The zoo he had visited many times as a child, where he rode the same decades-old tortoise that both of his sons rode years later.

The boy returned from the rear of the store to wait with him while the old man wrapped his flowers. You know, there’s a rose garden over there that’s really nice. Manny turned to face the boy. Yeah. I’ve been to that park a few times.

Have you ever been to the garden?

I think once long ago, with an old girlfriend. No, it was with my family, and we had a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken with us and had a picnic in the middle of the garden. It was a little embarrassing. People walking by trying to enjoy the beauty of the garden and there we were gnawing on chicken bones.

The boy laughed. My name’s Jaime. I just moved here, so the garden’s pretty new to me. We didn’t have anything that big where I used to live. So … you ever go there anymore?

Sometimes, but not to the garden.

I go there all the time. It’s relaxing.

Really? All the time? He looked directly into Jaime’s eyes and Jaime looked away.

Well… I go there a lot.

The old man came back to the front of the store with the flowers and thanked him for his purchase and Manny said it was no problem, his pleasure, and looked over at the boy, thanking him for his help and telling him he was going to head on over to the garden, maybe I’ll see you. Jaime smiled and Manny left the store and decided not to call the base just yet, he wanted to go sit in the garden and see if Jaime would show up. There was something about him—how he had smiled and the way he spoke. He drove his car across the street and parked it, then walked over to the garden, feeling the anticipation of being able to talk to Jaime and maybe they could talk about flowers and life and anything to keep Manny’s mind off the man lying beaten in the bathroom on Speedway and the dull throbbing in his chest and the itching at his temples. He walked through the rows of Sweet Dream roses and Magic Carpet roses and Freedom roses and Armada roses and Fellowship roses, stopping to smell each type and feel its petals, checking his watch from time to time and seeing if he could remember the names of the flowers without looking at the mounted placards in front of each row, and then he checked his watch and looked up at the sun, and still no Jaime, maybe he meant the pond, did he say the pond, and even though Manny knew Jaime had said the garden and not the pond he wanted to be sure, so he walked over to the pond where a few teenaged couples were dipping their feet and holding hands and geese lay sleeping beneath the shade of a giant oak tree, but Jaime was not there and Manny began to panic thinking shit, I’m an idiot and I probably missed him, walking, then running, back to the garden where a few old people meandered through the lanes of roses, but no boy. No Jaime. Manny’s stomach tightened. He began to feel anxious and continued to check his
watch every few seconds to see how much time had passed. He walked up and down the rows of flowers, passing the old people, overtaking them time after time, until he had fully memorized the names of each rose—the common names and the Latin names—and he walked faster and faster, creating ruts in the rows and getting dirty looks from folks who were out for a leisurely stroll, trying to enjoy the late afternoon when the sun began to cool. Manny stared in the direction of the flower shop and saw a figure coming toward him and his heart beat faster—it’s him—and his anticipation grew and he forced himself to walk much more slowly, pretending to scrutinize each individual flower to see how they differed even within the same type, and the figure came nearer and nearer, Manny growing antsy and blatantly looking up now because he did not want the boy to think he was not there. Manny squinted and realized that it was not the boy, it was some scrawny old man walking through the grass—where is he?—his excitement wilting away, replaced by anxiety and anger. It was nearly five and most of the people were gone from the garden. Manny ran to his car and drove out of the park and over to the flower shop. It was locked. Manny was seething. He looked around for relief of any sort. It was too late to go back to work and he didn’t want to see his wife yet, not like this.

A drink. That was what he needed. Not flowers. Not the boy. A good stiff drink. Rum or whiskey or gin, hell, I don’t care. He left his car in the parking lot of the flower shop and walked north because he knew this part of town had a liquor store or grocery store every few blocks, so he walked and had barely passed three businesses when he reached the corner and saw Torchy’s was open. He went inside and grabbed a bottle of Crown, his hands trembling as he retrieved the money from his wallet. The clerk wrapped the bottle in a paper bag and watched him leave, Manny shaking and fumbling with the lid of the bottle before he had even made it out of the store.

He took a long pull from the bottle. It burned his throat all the way down to his stomach where it settled but didn’t bring complete relief. It was just enough for him to gather his thoughts. He decided to go back to the park just in case Jaime was there, so he walked to his car with the bottle tucked into his waistband, drove back to the garden, and sat on a
picnic table, waiting. Manny lifted the bottle to his lips, letting it bubble two or three times, swallowing larger amounts as the afternoon turned to evening and the sun began to set. He knew Jaime wasn’t going to come, but now he could laugh about it because he was just a kid anyway, why the hell would a kid want to meet someone almost twice his age? His laughter helped, but the tension was once again getting unbearable. The liquor was no cure, no help at all. Neither was sitting on a picnic table in the middle of a park at dusk when the cops would be coming soon to move everyone along. He got back into his car and drove away, bewildered, tired, and lonely.

What happened to me to make me feel like this? I mean, people like me. They like my family and are proud of all I’ve accomplished at such a young age. So why isn’t it good enough? Manny brought the Crown to his lips, smelling the potent sting seeping out of the bottle, knowing he should just go home to his wife, go home and help give the boys their nighttime baths and tuck them into bed, then read Justin a chapter from
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
and after that go into his room with his wife and pretend he just had a hard day at work and needed to stop off for a couple drinks. It would be easy. He could fix this. He could beat this. Except he couldn’t figure out what
this
was. With his fingers he probed the bottom rim of his rib cage, trying to isolate the spot where maybe a tumor was growing. He pictured it—a gray smudge attached to his stomach, coiling its roots around his intestines, squeezing at the arteries around his heart like a closing fist. He felt its grip and thought I have to talk to somebody. I have to figure out some way to get back to normal, back to taking care of Stella and the boys and watering the lawn, pulling weeds from the cracks in the sidewalk. He needed someone to help him figure himself out. A good listener. Who can I call?

It suddenly seemed simple. He’d looked up Vinnie’s number in the directory at work earlier. He could just call him and ask if they could meet somewhere for a drink. Surely Vinnie could help him make some sense of the flurry of sensations he felt pressing against his head and chest so badly it made him want to gouge his fingers into his temples and dig around until he found whatever was scratching the walls of his skull.

He pulled his car beside a payphone in a 7-Eleven parking lot and grabbed the receiver with a trembling hand. Twice he dropped his quarter on the ground and had to reach down to retrieve it. He finally managed to get the quarter in the slot and dial Vinnie.

The phone rang four times and he was about to hang up when Vinnie answered, sounding sleepy.

Hey, Vinnie. It’s Manny. He was so glad he’d actually picked up. To hear him on the other end. The deep controlled voice, so sure of itself.

How’d you get my number?

Remember you said you were up for hanging out sometime? The first time they officially talked Manny had managed to get him to agree to a second meeting. He owes me.

I did? Yes, Yes. What night do you want to get together, Captain?

Tonight. I mean now. Can you meet me?

Sure. I mean, I guess I can. Is everything okay?

Fine, Vinnie. Fine. Everything’s much better.

Um … the Tap Room? Is that okay, Captain?

Sounds good.

Okay, Captain, I’ll be there in about a half hour.

In his excitement, he hung up the phone too fast to ask for directions, but then he remembered the Tap Room was on Pantano Road, where the wash ran beside Q Mart.

When he reached the Tap Room, he parked and got out to try to sober up in the brisk desert night air while he waited for Vinnie. He sat on the hood of his car, then eased his way back to lay his head on the cool windshield, enjoying the warmth of the hood beneath him and the wind cooling his skin.

It was during this period of waiting, while he listened to the clicks of his engine cooling down, that Manny began to wonder for the first time since his early years where the washes of Tucson led. Like all the other people in the city, Manny knew washes were dangerous during monsoon season. He didn’t remember ever being told, just remembered that one day he was acutely aware of how dangerous the hardpan gutters that ran all over the city were. He’d seen plenty of news clips on TV where people were trapped in a wash during a flood, but the cameras
never showed where the water went. Did the desert simply suck the water up as soon as it fell, or did it eventually drain into a secret underground river?

From the cockpit of an F-15 the washes looked like wrinkles in the desert’s skin. But when they were this close, they looked like ancient sewers, a drainage system designed to carry away the filth of the city when the rains came and scoured Tucson’s streets. Now that he thought about it, Manny realized it hadn’t rained in some time. But when it did, he wanted to be there to see where the washes would end.

Stella put the babies to bed on her own. First she bathed the kids, taking care not to cry in front of Justin so he wouldn’t be worried. Then she tucked him into bed and walked to the living room where she put the radio on Cloud 95 and sat down in a rocking chair with her baby. She held his head nuzzled between her breasts and hummed the songs playing on the radio. Cat Stevens. The Carpenters.

But she didn’t pay any attention to the songs or the baby. It was Manny she thought about. His work had called at noon looking for him. Then they called back a couple hours later and they said he left and never came back for the meetings scheduled for that afternoon. This was not like anything he had ever done before. Her eyes were puffy from crying and her ear was sore from pressing the phone against it earlier when she called the base looking for her husband. By the time she had gotten through to someone who had any information about him, it was 8 p.m. All they could tell her was Manny had been seen leaving the west gate just before noon. No, they didn’t know why. And now it was eleven and she was sitting in her living room wondering what was bothering Manny so much that he’d risk his job and his family to go AWOL. What if something was wrong with him psychologically? Maybe he was schizophrenic or hallucinating or something. But her biggest fear was the one she refused to acknowledge. That beneath his cover of perfection, he was actually disloyal. Maybe he was just too perfect. Too good to be true.

Manny, let it be anything except you leaving me for another woman. Please. We have such wonderful memories. A beautiful wedding at
Lake Havasu. Two handsome boys. IRAs. Nine years, for the love of God, and I’m not going to let one stupid little mistake come between us like this. But the later it became, the more she began to worry that maybe he hadn’t left her. Maybe he was hurt somewhere. He wouldn’t get involved in drugs or gambling, would he? No, he’s on his way right now. Yes, that’s my Manny. Something came up but he’ll be back soon. He’ll walk through the door any minute and he’ll explain everything and then it will all be back to normal. I mean, he was fine this morning. He’ll come home and explain everything and compliment my hair. We’ll go to bed and wake up in the morning and life will go on. It always does, with Manny talking about his next promotion and where we’ll send our sons to college and where we’re going to build our retirement home. Stella hummed to the baby and listened to the swamp cooler whirring on the roof. The sliding glass doors shook a little as an F-15 flew overhead. He’ll walk through the door and tell me he loves me and give me an explanation and I’ll see all of this dumb worrying was for nothing.