Keys of Babylon (6 page)

Thanks, he had said, eventually.

You're welcome, she said.

He never touched her again.

Then there was another interview. This took place in a corridor, everybody standing up. Again she said yes, yes, except to the query about using the defibrillator. Don't worry about that, the man had said. Nothing to it.

Now she taps in the entrance code and uses the antiseptic rub by the door. Really she knows she's not supposed to wear her uniform outside, but all the staff ignore that, and she starts clearing away the lunches.

Afternoons are pretty good. There are already some visitors in and the edge has been taken off the day. Off the residents too. There is a sprinkling in the television lounge, but most are already in their rooms. Doing what they do. Which is mostly sleeping. Or crying. Yes a lot of them cry. But then, she would too, wouldn't she? Wouldn't anybody cry who wound up in the Sunset, watching that big fiery sky? Ending up. Ending up in BCC. Which was nowhere, everybody knew that. A scattered town on the way from somewhere to somewhere else. Ribs and a Corona in the Badass BBQ? French toast at the Amish Kitchen? Then what? You'd move on. Past the saguaros. Move away.

No, of course she wouldn't cry. Ending up at the Sunset was a Hollywood dream. The Sunset was one thousand dollars a week. She couldn't have afforded one hundred. Fifty. Ending up was something she never thought about, like winning the lottery or UFOs in the desert. Ending up was nothing to do with her.

On her way back from the dining room she notes the bell in 42 has been ringing for some time.

Everything all right? she asks, entering.

He'd like to urinate, says a tall, bald man, gesturing at another man in a wheelchair. We've been ringing for ten minutes.

Of course, she says.

While she pulls the old man's tracksuit bottoms down and puts the plastic bottle in position, the bald man goes into the corridor.

Never seen his father piss, she thinks. Never seen his father's sweet little, dead little cock. Kind of mauve colour. Like a jalepeno.

The spurt is rank and dark and there's not much of it.

Hey Larry, she says. I keep telling you to drink water. And you keep not drinking water.

She pulls his pants up. Drinking's good. Water's good for the kidneys. Flush all those nasty poisons away.

On the television screen is a freeze-framed DVD image. She has to look at it. For some reason it jumps into life. There's a soundtrack too, a tune she likes, ‘The Breeze and I' played on a Wurlitzer organ.

Her mother had sung it to the family, using the Spanish words. All about far-away Spain. About Andalucia, mythical kingdom.

Maria had once sung it for Frank who had smiled and danced her round the room. Before even Frank's era of course. He told her he remembered Caterina Valente and the new English lyrics on every radio station in the country. But Frank was no dreamer. He played driving music. Little Feat and the Allman Brothers were his choice, the house in the trees awash with that tuneless guitar squall. Frank catalogued the songs on the tape cards, his writing too big for the spaces. Strange that. She'd never thought him a man who made lists. But it passed the time, she assumed. She recalled the old Impala pulling up in the slush, ‘Dixie Chicken' playing until the engine died. Frank always liked the rock stars who died young. That Lowell George. Poor Greg Allman, coming off his motorcycle. He spoke about them as if they were role models, though he was an older man, a grey-haired caretaker dressed like an outlaw. Tongue between his teeth, making his lists.

He doesn't urinate enough, does he? said the bald man.

Urinate, she thought. Why not say
micturate
? Why not pull your own father's jogging bottoms up just one time. And weep for his yellow loins.

Larry was eighty-five. He complained about his pants. About them rucking and twisting. Or coming down. About something he called
sting ring
. About not being able to take a crap. Yes, pissing and shitting. That's what it came to in the end. In the ending-up type of end. The real end. Which was no type of end she could imagine for herself. Because ending up cost money.

Maria smiles. Mr Chernowski, your father has good bladder and bowel control. But he doesn't drink because he feels the bottle is an indignity. He tries to avoid it. But a bottle's better than a catheter.

She turns to the television.

Where's that? she asks.

Oh, little treat for Dad, says the son. Our premiere. Folks in the office clubbed up for my retirement present. Bought Mrs Chernowski and me a weekend in Rocky Point. We took some film so dad could see where we were.

Rocky Point?

In Mex. Sorry, Mexico way. About an eight-hour drive from here. We stopped in Gila Bend for lunch and were there by early evening. Went through a place called
Why
. Stopped the car and took pictures by the sign. Why not? ha ha. But there was nothing there. Then we crossed at Sonoita. Bad roads at the other end. Dogs with no hair. But what can you expect.

Maria watches the film. Mr and Mrs Chernowski are on a promenade. The Sea of Cortez is violet behind them. There are palm trees, pelicans perched on bushels of kelp, an old man with a machete cutting mangoes into flower shapes. Mrs Chernowski is holding her mango flower to her face, and now Mr Chernowski is choosing an oystershell at a fish stall and the stall holder smiling and opening the shell with a stiletto and squirting sauce over the oyster and Mr Chernowski saying no, no, don't make it hot, I get heartburn. Phew, I can't eat that.

There are fishing boats in a harbour. A low stone posada with the couple outside, a panorama of the town from some high place.

We put the organ music on because it's my father's favourite, explains Chernowski. Polka too, he likes a good polka. Hey, look, this is the next morning.

The Chernowskis are at breakfast in a bar called Mickey's. A beaming man has brought plates of eggs and bacon and glasses of orange juice, plus two small bottles, to the table. The camera homes in on these. They say ‘Mickey's Tequila'.

Yes, that's Mickey, says Chernowski. He served us himself. Speciality of the house, Mickey said. Free tequila with your breakfast. Mrs Chernowski looked at me, she said Jacob, you even sniff that stuff you'll be inebriated. And I bet she would have been right. Oh yes. The people on the next table asked if we were going to drink it. No way, we said. So we passed it over. Phew, it just vanished. And at that time in the morning. Takes all sorts but you need to keep your wits about you down there. Yip, there's Mickey. What a ham. You just wouldn't believe how cheap it was. Look at those sunny sides now.

You're retiring? she asks.

Well, that's the idea. I'll be a retiree. Funny word. Moving up to Anthem, out of the city. I could keep going of course. In accounts, experience pays. Everybody tells me that. But they're always changing the software. Like, why? And Mrs Chernowski says she wants me home. Says it's a long day on her own, though she has her magazines.

Anthem's nice they say.

Well, yes. The great outdoors. And the golf's going to be good I suppose. I've actually played the Ironwood. Well, first nine. Six. Company's paying the membership for three years, which is a fantastic deal. But you know sometimes I just stroll around and can't believe it's so green. Everywhere else burned off, but the course like the Garden of Eden. And those red birds flying about.

Would you take Larry, I mean your father there? He might enjoy an outing.

Chernowski smiles. In theory, fine. I'd love to. But even in his new wheelchair, even with those straps, he slips down, and with my hernia, you know, it's hard to make him comfortable. I get this shooting pain. And there's the bottle business. What if he needs to go?

The son looks old. His glasses are pebble-lensed. Maria thinks he's Jewish, but maybe he's too tall. Are there tall Jews? Even here in the room, the room smelling of his father's piss and pine-scented disinfectant, he's stooping. She notices the waste bin is overflowing with tissues, and opens the second window.

Okay, says Chernowski. And sits down. I'll come clean. Truth is, golf's not really my bag, as they used to say. It's tougher than it looks. And it takes so long, phew, out in that sun. Then there's a drink at the clubhouse. Those nibbles they lay on, they're to die for. But then I'd never want lunch, would I? And all the time there's Mrs Chernowski fretting at home, thinking I'm in an accident. I got blindsided once on Buckeye and she's never forgotten it.

He crosses his long legs.

Tell the truth, she didn't really like Rocky Point. You know, there were beggars there. Grown men and women, out and out begging. We both wore money belts and stayed on the main drag. Hotel had a safe, no messing. But you even wonder about that these days.

You didn't enjoy Mexico?

Well I did, says Chernowski. I certainly did. We saw a good show there, the Saturday night. You know, those mariachi guys, in those suits they wear, all gold embroidery. Big sombreros too. Called themselves Los Burros. And a girl, just a kid really, dancing on a table, lifting her skirt right up over her head.

Sounds great.

Oh yeah. We bought their CD. Brought it in for
d
ad to hear. But, you know, what was disappointing was this woman we met. Outside the hotel. She was selling rugs, these Mexican rugs, traditional design and all that. And you know what she said?

Yes, I do, smiled Maria.

You know? How can you know? What did she say?

Maria steadied herself. She was being forward. This was unlike how she behaved. In a way she had transgressed. All those years ago she had vowed to agree with everything she heard. Never to stand out. That was the rule. Wasn't that how she had survived?

She says that the rugs aren't made by Mexicans. That they come from China. And that the Chinese make them cheaper than the local women.

Wow, breathes Chernowski. Hole in one. And the thing was, they looked… authentic, those rugs. Like they were just off some country loom. You know, like tortillas in the ash. Like home weaving. All that Mexican schtick.

The next day at 4 p.m. Maria walks into room 42. Larry is sitting in his armchair, head down. Someone has put the Rocky Point DVD on for him, but there's no one else there. ‘The Breeze and I' is playing, his waste bin overflowing again.

Hey Larry, she says. You didn't eat lunch.

He looks up and scowls. Then he smiles.

That crap? It's invalid food. What about a steak one time?

Well Larry, you know we don't run to steaks. You're trying to bankrupt the organisation. And have you really got the teeth for it?

That's my problem, not yours. Just a steak one time. Porterhouse, like we used to eat. Hanging both sides off the plate.

And gravy?

Sure gravy. Why not gravy? With red wine in it and a glass of red wine. French wine. Fancy. And Bohemian crystal. On a white tablecloth. Yeah, that's Bo-hem-ian.

How Larry loves that word in his mouth. Its smooth jewel. He licks his chops.

Maria sits down. You know I used to work in the kitchen and I can't remember us ever serving steak.

Larry's son is on the TV screen holding Mickey's tequila. He's giving the bottles to the people on the next table. A barechested young man with military tattoos, a girl in a bikini top, her hair wet and pulled back.

Now those two look like they're enjoying themselves, says Maria.

Sheesh, sneers Larry. Get a load of the jugs on that.

Hey mister, she laughs. You're the lively one today. I think we might take a walk.

A colleague helps her hoist the old man into his wheelchair and they go down the cool corridor. Larry has his ballcap and dark glasses, but when Maria taps in the code and the door opens, he recoils. The air is a hotplate.

A concrete path with passing bays has been built around the Sunset. There's no meat on the old man, but it's an effort to push him up the incline towards a cottonwood and a bench of recycled plastic. On the bench is a plaque that says ‘to Ben & Martha, who loved this place'. She parks Larry and sits down.

So, Maria says. Rocky Point.

Larry shrugs. Surprised they went, he says. That's some drive you know. Through the National Monument.

Oh I know, she says. It's a long way to Puerto Penasco. Or Rocky Point as you call it.

I was down there one time, says Larry, looking up at last.

Around them the low hills are studded with iron-pointed cholla. There's a Chevron gas station sign next to the road.

We stayed in this hotel. They claim it was where Al Capone used to hang out, trying to smuggle booze and guns north. Alphonse Capone. Died of the clap.

With Maria's help the old man sits back and lets the sun do its job. Soon it will be too fierce but now it is balm and benediction. She looks at him. Old tortoise in fashionable Ray-Bans, his red Cardinals cap too big.

Hey, he says. What's that smell?