Chapter Twenty-Seven Beverly
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Beverly
It had taken more than a month to plan this. Between my flight schedule and Judy’s temporary job at Alpha Beta, this Mexican divorce thing was taking longer than we both wanted. But we were here at last. Juàrez, Mexico. We’d heard it was faster and less busy than Tijuana.
Well, that was a laugh. Too late to change plans now.
“Now I know what it feels like to be a sardine,” I tell Judy.
“I’m sorry I asked you to come. I had no idea it would be like this.”
“Hold still, Judy. I’m going to swat a fly that’s caught in your hair.”
I flick the pesky little bug off Judy’s coif. I’d insisted on letting me do her hair for such an important event, but little did I know that half of the East Coast would be in Juárez, Mexico, looking to break the ties of holy matrimony.
“Joe had been willing to come,” she says in an apologetic tone.
I would put my hands on my hips, but there is no room given the smash of people in this basement hallway at the Municipal Palace of Juárez. We’d flown to El Paso on American Airlines and bused across the border. Like everyone else here. Looking to cut out years of red tape in the US.
I shake my head. “No. Absolutely not. Joe’s a peach, no doubt about it. But there are just some things—messy things—that you should simply not expose your lover to.”
“He’s not my lover,” Judy protests.
“Not yet . That’s why we’re here. To clear the way for the unspeakable bliss that awaits you two.”
Judy rolls her eyes. She doesn’t let me get away with laying things on too thick.
“All the same,” I continue. “Why do you think they don’t let men in the delivery room when a woman is having a baby? Because he does not need to see what goes on down there. Or he may never want to, you know, revisit that area again.”
“Beverly! I think we have strayed from the point of this conversation.”
“Not in the least. It just proves my point. You and Joe are in the wooing phase of your relationship. Don’t let him see the mess of you getting a divorce in a swampy hall in Mexico.”
“And don’t you think, assuming our relationship lasts for a very long time, that there will be plenty of mess? Isn’t sticking around for that what love is all about?”
“Sure it is. But at least get a ring on that unpolished finger of yours before making him think that you’re more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Beverly!” she says again, and I fear that I’ve hurt her feelings. But one glance tells me that she is more than used to putting up with my candor.
“I didn’t say you’re personally not worth it, Judy. I’d say the same to any woman. Don’t worry. You’re a peach too. You and Joe. Two peachy peaches. Going to make cute peachy peach babies someday.”
She rolls her eyes for the second time in as many minutes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest.”
“You know, you use that excuse a lot.”
“Mark says the same thing about me.”
“Well, now I like him even better.”
I shrug. But she’s right. Judy and Mark share the annoying habit of letting me go just so far with my pontifications before reeling me in.
But they’re good for me, and I know it.
“Número cuarenta y siete,” shouts a man at the counter.
“If only they spoke French in Mexico,” I complain.
“He said number forty-seven .”
“Thank you,” says Judy, turning to the stranger who helped us out. A woman with dark circles under her eyes. Everyone here has a story, and she seems to be no exception. Judy glances down at our paper ticket. “Ten more to go until us.”
I wipe some sweat from my forehead. “Speaking of Mark, I finally saw his place in Sunset Beach.” I wish I could have gotten there sooner. But between short layovers, visits to my cousins, and some routes that didn’t take me to Oahu at all, I’d only recently been able to make it to the far side of the island. Content to visit with Mark whenever he could make it to the Honolulu side.
Judy smiles. I know that she is eager to talk about anything other than why we are here today.
“Swanky, I’m sure.”
“Surprisingly not. In fact, not at all.”
“Do tell.”
As ticket numbers are called, one by one, we step forward in line while I tell her the story of my most recent trip to Hawaii.
“My girl is here at last!” I begin, telling her the first words out of Mark’s mouth.
Our flight had been delayed by six hours. First, a thunderstorm had grounded our aircraft that was supposed to come in from London to San Francisco. They were able to ferry a flight from Los Angeles only to learn that upon landing, a gear got damaged. By the time that was sorted, the original flight had come in. Though stewardesses are only paid from takeoff to touchdown, we’d been allowed to punch in and help the overwhelmed gate attendants keep the restless passengers happy during their terminal wait. Most travelers were appreciative of the lengths we went to—pulling Maxim’s trays from storage, warming them up in a borrowed airport lounge kitchen. Fetching water and ice from the employee offices.
Others were indignant, demanding refunds and threatening to call the company president . As if Juan Trippe could control the weather or magically make repairs from his office in New York.
I wanted to shout, “You are about to fly to paradise , you dirtbags! Shut your trap and show a little gratitude.”
But I didn’t. And I was rather proud of myself for that restraint.
So by the time I arrived at Mark’s—an hour’s taxi ride from the airport—I’d missed the sunset. But I was mollified with the thought that I could relax in a steaming-hot bathtub and wash the travel and inevitable galley spills off me.
It wasn’t to be so.
After Mark swept me into his arms and twirled me around, I smoothed my hair and took a good look at my surroundings.
There wasn’t much to see.
Behind me I could hear the ocean roar, just as he’d described. But in front of me was a diminutive building. Practically a shed. A lone light bulb hung from a porch with barely enough room for the two chairs positioned on it. And beyond that, a door stood open to reveal—a room.
One solitary room.
Mark kissed me then, swallowing my disappointment without even realizing it was there. I lost all sense of time, space, sense when his lips moved away from mine. Slowly, slowly down my neck. He hooked one finger around the starched white collar of my uniform and breathed onto my exposed collarbone, sending chills down my skin.
“Welcome to my ‘ohana,” he said. I was confused— ‘ohana was the Hawaiian word for family, as far as I knew, but then I remembered that Karina and Ann had mentioned once on a subsequent visit that it was also the name for a small house on the property of a larger one. As I looked up, I indeed saw a larger house very far off in the distance.
But my original interpretation of the word—family—had struck a nerve.
Family was a notion that up until recently had evoked resentment. But the discovery of my relation to Sami, the growing warmth with my mother, the cheery companionship of my newfound cousins, was replacing it with something that bordered happiness.
I liked the word ‘ohana coming from Mark’s beautiful lips. Family.
This ‘ohana—this shack—however, left much to be desired.
Mark lifted me up and carried me over the threshold as if I was his bride, and he set me down on the threadbare couch that faced a thirteen-inch television. The antennae stretched almost to the top of the low ceiling. As did Mark.
A quick look at my surroundings revealed the rest. A corner kitchen, a twin bed covered with a native-made quilt. A dinette with two chairs, one of which had a foot-high pile of books.
“Is there—is there a toilet?”
It had been a long flight. A long taxi ride. This was an essential question.
“Yes.” He grinned like an excited little boy. “Wait until you see it!”
He took my hand and led me through a door I initially didn’t see. But rather than take me to anything that resembled what one might call a lavatory, it revealed only a tall fence with the darkening sky for a ceiling. The toilet was roughly installed, sans seat, on one end of the semi-enclosure and a showerhead protruded from the wall on the other.
I looked at Mark. He clearly loved it.
The Ritz Paris, it was not.
“I—” I started. Not even knowing what would come out of my mouth next.
“I’ll give you your privacy,” he said.
He stepped back inside, and I looked around me to make sure that no one could see in. But the fence was in surprisingly good shape. No knotholes through which anyone could peek in. No buildings around us that could look down on me.
Not that any people or buildings were anywhere close by.
I unzipped my skirt and hovered over the bowl so I wouldn’t fall in and focused on the showerhead, wondering what it might be like to shower outside. I’d never been camping—the thought appalled me. But somehow ... somehow I was intrigued. Mark was so happy here. I had to give it a chance.
I flushed, relieved that there was at least attached plumbing. So it wasn’t totally irredeemable. I let my skirt fall to the tiled floor. Then I unbuttoned my jacket and blouse and all my undergarments until I stood, fully naked, under the evening sky. I stepped forward and jiggled the handles until cold water spurted out of the overhead faucet. I flinched at first, and shivered until it warmed to a manageable temperature. I let the water fall over me as I stretched my arms over my head. I was exhausted and exhilarated all at the same time, and it was a marvelous feeling. I looked up—the sky was nearing blackness, and I stopped counting at forty stars with many to go.
I heard a little knock, and I covered myself with my hands. A fruitless gesture, but an instinctive one. Mark’s arm shot out, but I could see that his face was turned away.
“I heard the water start. Tempting, wasn’t it? The outdoor shower. Here’s some soap. And I’m putting a clean towel on the hook by the toilet.”
I hadn’t noticed the hook. I would have hung my uniform if I’d seen it. At least Pan Am will pay for my laundry at the Royal Hawaiian.
Mark’s nearness made me feel the tingle of anticipation that I always felt around him. But I was impressed at his discretion. And a little disappointed, if I was honest.
I was tempted to invite him to come in.
The stars had clearly bewitched me.
But as the water ran cold again, the spell was broken, and I turned the faucet off. I toweled myself dry, gave a quick rub to my hair, and picked my uniform up off the floor.
I thought about putting it back on, but it had gotten wet. And it was quite dirty after the extra-long shift.
I wrapped the towel around myself, barely covering all my girlish parts. I stuck my head inside the door expecting to see Mark, but the room was empty. At the foot of the bed, he’d laid out some thermal pants and a matching top. And a silver-wrapped Hershey’s Kiss. I put everything on and slipped the candy into my pocket.
Stewardesses weren’t supposed to spend the night away from the designated hotel without permission, but the long delay had us all out of sorts, and I was going to hedge my bets that I wouldn’t be missed. Besides, it wasn’t as if I had planned on staying out here. But it was so late, and Honolulu was so far, and our already short time had been rendered even shorter.
It wasn’t as if I’d never bent a rule before. Just not with Pan Am.
Mark Oakley was the kind of man I wanted to break rules with.
I stretched my arms again and closed my eyes as I heard the ocean waves even from inside the shack. I opened the front door to find Mark sitting in the chair, legs swung over the railing.
He jumped up as soon as he saw me, and his eyes grew wide. I saw his hands clench at his sides.
“I think—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I think that you wearing my pajamas is the most gorgeous sight I’ve ever seen.”
“Then you haven’t gotten around much,” I teased.
I put my hands on my hips, and he slipped his arms right through them as if they’d been invited. Instead of kissing me, he bent down and nuzzled my neck.
“Mmm,” he said. “My favorite coconut soap. My favorite thermals. My favorite girl.”
My eyes welled up with tears at the perfection of the moment, but I willed them away by the time he pulled back and looked at me.
“And did you see the chocolate? My little attempt at a turndown service.”
I slipped my hand into my pocket and nodded. I unwrapped the foil and placed the chocolate between my teeth, leaving it there and looking at Mark with all the intensity that I felt.
His eyes grew wide again, and before I knew it, his lips were back on mine, the chocolate between us, until it had melted all away.
I could get into so much trouble for this.
“Don’t tell me the rest,” Judy says, holding up a hand. “I can well imagine.”
I look around and realize that in getting lost in the story, I’ve gained an audience in the people around me.
I’ve never felt so awkward, telling this tale of my budding affair among a crowd of people who are dissolving their own. I put a hand over my mouth and whisper, “I’m sorry” so quietly that no one can actually hear it.
Judy speaks in a lowered tone. “Not that it matters, but with his Coca-Cola advertisement and his swimming accolades, I would have thought he could afford something more.”
“That’s the thing,” I say. “The remarkable thing, really. Mark can easily afford more. But he doesn’t want it. He wants the freedom of walking out and swimming in the ocean every morning. He wants the richness that a blanket of stars provides. And I—I’m surprised to say this, but I may be starting to want the same thing.”
Mr. Wall Street would be appalled. But I think it is an excellent trade.
Just then, the man at the counter shouts, “Cincuenta y siete.” Judy waves her ticket, and we step forward.