Read Online Tampico (James A. Michener Fiction Series) by Toby Olson - Free Book Online
Authors: Toby Olson
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“I never went back to the house. I took a room at the hotel and concentrated on my work, and in a week went to the Texas Oil office at the airport to talk with Joaquín.
“I remember he said, ‘
Compadre
, a transfer? But this is good here, the money’s good.’
“‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s Chepa.’
“‘Well, of course. I can understand that, these reminders. But are you sure?’
“‘It’s either that,’ I said, ‘or I quit.’
“‘I understand,’ he said.
“And I did quit. Joaquín took my part as he could, but they needed me there, and the bosses pushed the issue. The money
was
good. I was richer than I’d ever been before, or since, at that time, and they must have thought I’d back off. They refused to talk to me about it, and though for a week Joaquín was champion of my cause, my heart wasn’t in it and I told him to stop.
“We were both sad in our good-byes at the bus station, and I think Joaquín had tears in his eyes. I’d saved enough in six months to last me more than a year of good living, and I was dressed in the finely tailored leather clothes and new boots I’d bought in town the day before. I’d bought a new suitcase and a Stetson too, and Joaquín had taken me to his barber for a shave.
“‘You’re looking good,’ he said, as he shook my hand, ‘a little better than when you came. How is your
corazón?’
“‘It’ll have to do,’ I said, then squeezed his hand and released it and turned and climbed up into the bus.
“There were chickens in the bus, a large hog and a couple of painted dogs and a parrot in a cage. And children were laughing and playing games with bones and cards in the aisle, their mothers bent over them in caring scolding and smiling and childish conversation. The bus was crowded, and people were standing and the windows were open, and the driver held a cat in his lap, a tiger cat. I had to bend down from where I stood to see out the window, and I looked for Joaquín as the bus pulled out, but he was gone, and when I rose up again I felt the fingers of the man beside me on my arm and turned to him. He held out a bottle of mezcal and shook it. There was an inch or two of liquid in the bottom and the white worm. I took it and thanked him and swigged from it, then handed it back, a lastmatter of formality and social grace, leaving Tampico forever.”
It was after one. A curl of smoke rose up from Gino’s pipe and drifted against the windows and dissolved. He was looking out again, and Larry turned from John and watched him. Frank’s chin was on his chest, his hooded eyes on the pencil he rolled between his fingers. He’d been scratching on a yellow pad, lines and figures. A deep, muffled sigh filtered out to them through the screen at the solarium’s side, then Gino turned and took the pipe from his mouth.
“Ah, memory,” said Frank, his pencil active on the pad.
“The lighthouse?” John asked, and Frank nodded, but didn’t look up.
“What about Chepa’s house. What happened there?” It was Larry.
“I suppose it’s gone now. After all this time. I gave the contract to Joaquín, right there at the station as I was leaving. He said it was as good as any deed. I think I said for safekeeping, thinking I’d see him again sometime, but I never went back to Tampico, and I never did.”
“Wouldn’t that be a place to go!” said Gino at the window. Then Frank began.
He and his father knocked up the coop together, soaking corner posts in creosote, then sinking them and framing that and toeing the floor joists in. The floor itself was cut from warped lumber found out in the barn, and they put in a wainscotting and screening and a tin roof at a good enough angle to drain rain. His father went off in the flatbed, then came back with the wire cages and grain, and his mother watched from the porch as feathers flew and the chickens hopped into their new home. His father dug a trench and put in lights and what his mother called the
“I never went back to the house. I took a room at the hotel and concentrated on my work, and in a week went to the Texas Oil office at the airport to talk with Joaquín.
“I remember he said, ‘
Compadre
, a transfer? But this is good here, the money’s good.’
“‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s Chepa.’
“‘Well, of course. I can understand that, these reminders. But are you sure?’
“‘It’s either that,’ I said, ‘or I quit.’
“‘I understand,’ he said.
“And I did quit. Joaquín took my part as he could, but they needed me there, and the bosses pushed the issue. The money
was
good. I was richer than I’d ever been before, or since, at that time, and they must have thought I’d back off. They refused to talk to me about it, and though for a week Joaquín was champion of my cause, my heart wasn’t in it and I told him to stop.
“We were both sad in our good-byes at the bus station, and I think Joaquín had tears in his eyes. I’d saved enough in six months to last me more than a year of good living, and I was dressed in the finely tailored leather clothes and new boots I’d bought in town the day before. I’d bought a new suitcase and a Stetson too, and Joaquín had taken me to his barber for a shave.
“‘You’re looking good,’ he said, as he shook my hand, ‘a little better than when you came. How is your
corazón?’
“‘It’ll have to do,’ I said, then squeezed his hand and released it and turned and climbed up into the bus.
“There were chickens in the bus, a large hog and a couple of painted dogs and a parrot in a cage. And children were laughing and playing games with bones and cards in the aisle, their mothers bent over them in caring scolding and smiling and childish conversation. The bus was crowded, and people were standing and the windows were open, and the driver held a cat in his lap, a tiger cat. I had to bend down from where I stood to see out the window, and I looked for Joaquín as the bus pulled out, but he was gone, and when I rose up again I felt the fingers of the man beside me on my arm and turned to him. He held out a bottle of mezcal and shook it. There was an inch or two of liquid in the bottom and the white worm. I took it and thanked him and swigged from it, then handed it back, a lastmatter of formality and social grace, leaving Tampico forever.”
It was after one. A curl of smoke rose up from Gino’s pipe and drifted against the windows and dissolved. He was looking out again, and Larry turned from John and watched him. Frank’s chin was on his chest, his hooded eyes on the pencil he rolled between his fingers. He’d been scratching on a yellow pad, lines and figures. A deep, muffled sigh filtered out to them through the screen at the solarium’s side, then Gino turned and took the pipe from his mouth.
“Ah, memory,” said Frank, his pencil active on the pad.
“The lighthouse?” John asked, and Frank nodded, but didn’t look up.
“What about Chepa’s house. What happened there?” It was Larry.
“I suppose it’s gone now. After all this time. I gave the contract to Joaquín, right there at the station as I was leaving. He said it was as good as any deed. I think I said for safekeeping, thinking I’d see him again sometime, but I never went back to Tampico, and I never did.”
“Wouldn’t that be a place to go!” said Gino at the window. Then Frank began.
He and his father knocked up the coop together, soaking corner posts in creosote, then sinking them and framing that and toeing the floor joists in. The floor itself was cut from warped lumber found out in the barn, and they put in a wainscotting and screening and a tin roof at a good enough angle to drain rain. His father went off in the flatbed, then came back with the wire cages and grain, and his mother watched from the porch as feathers flew and the chickens hopped into their new home. His father dug a trench and put in lights and what his mother called the
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