Tijuana, Massachusetts Read online

  Tijuana, Massachusetts

  *****

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  *****

  Tijuana, Massachusetts

  At first, Patty thought someone was shooting at her. Bracka-cracka-crack. She clamped her hands over her ears, fighting to drown out the clattering racket. Cracka-bracka-brack.

  Then, suddenly, it was like someone had turned down the volume and she could hear the sound for what it really was.

  Shicka-shacka-shicka.

  And when she opened her eyes, she saw what was making that sound: a bright yellow box jumping up and down in a dirty brown hand. A rainbow-colored logo swirled across the front under a cellophane wrapper.

  Chiclets. Someone was shaking a box of Chiclets in her face.

  "Five dollar, señora." The voice of a little boy called out from behind the box. "Want some Cheek-lits?"

  What the fuck?

  Since when did kids run around selling Chiclets on Cape Cod, Massachusetts?

  Patty shook her head hard, trying to clear away the fog. Looking up, she caught an eyeful of blinding sun, then looked down. It was only then she realized she was on her ass in the middle of the street.

  "Get the fuck away from me!" She swatted the Chiclets box out of her face, revealing the little brown-skinned, black-haired boy who'd been holding it. He wore a green-and-white striped t-shirt and tattered jeans and looked highly insulted. "Damn wetback." She wrinkled her nose in disgust at a surge of body odor.

  Only to realize the kid was upwind and the B.O. was coming from her.

  Bzeep zeep.

  Suddenly, Patty heard a strange buzzing beeping noise and felt nauseous. Something in her eyes flickered, and the boy transformed.

  Instead of a little black-haired boy with brown skin, he became a little blond boy with pale skin. Instead of a striped t-shirt and tattered jeans, he wore a navy blue polo shirt with the collar turned up and a pair of neatly pressed white shorts.

  "What the--" Patty couldn't help smiling at the cute child, who was much more what she expected to see on The Cape.

  Bzeep zeep.

  Then, her eyes flickered, and the little brown boy was back.

  "What the fuck?" Patty shook her head hard and braced her hands on the hot, rough pavement. She took deep breaths and forced down the urge to be sick.

  The kid started toward her, and Patty shooed him away. "Go eat a taco, Paco!" Then, she struggled to her hands and knees. She got to her feet.

  And she took a look around.

  "What the fuck is this?" Patty had never seen so much brown skin on The Cape. Was it Cinco de fucking Mayo, or what?

  Some kind of street fair was going on around her. There was Mexican music in the air, all horns and guitars and accordions. People stared out at her from stalls overflowing with sombreros, serapes, and pottery. She saw men in white shirts and slacks, women in bowler hats and long pink and orange and yellow and red dresses.

  Not one of them had pale skin like Patty's. The Cape was really going downhill.

  "Fucking wetbacks." Frowning people cleared out of Patty's path as she lurched down the street like a broken bulldozer. "Fucking Cape."

  Staggering away from the stalls, she swung around a corner and felt suddenly dizzy. She had to catch herself against the front window of a shop.

  Palms pressed against the smooth glass, Patty closed her eyes and fought for control. It slipped away every time she thought she had it.

  I need help. Her legs buckled, and she barely stayed on her feet. I need J-

  Bzeep zeep.

  Patty's eyes snapped open, and she stared at her reflection in the window. She'd had a name on the tip of her tongue, and then...

  Bzeep zeep.

  Gone. It was gone.

  "What the fuck?" Her voice was a whisper. She'd been thinking of something, of someone, and then that buzzing beeping noise had broken her train of thought.

  Patty squinted at her image, but it had nothing to tell her. Same old crinkled-up 52-year-old bulldog face, chipmunk overbite, and gray crew cut.

  But at least it gave her something to hold on to. At least that much, the way she looked, hadn't changed.

  Or had it? That little bump between her eyes--that was new, wasn't it? Reaching up, she ran her index finger over it, feeling a hard little nub above the bridge of her nose. It was like a tiny pea, a ball bearing, but warm to the touch.

  When did that get there?

  Taking a deep breath, Patty pushed away from the window. She was hardly aware she was stepping into the street until a big black car nearly plowed her over.

  The blast of the horn still rang in her ears as she teetered in shock. Then, looking up, she saw something that made her freeze.

  She saw a billboard on the side of a building, emblazoned with three giant words, each bursting with wild, bright colors.

  Welcome to Tijuana!

  "What kind of bullshit joke is this?" Patty flung her hand through the air as if she could sweep away the sign. "Some motherfucker with too much fucking time on his hands?"

  Bzeep zeep.

  Her vision flickered, and the billboard changed from the garish Welcome to Tijuana! to a more subdued Welcome to Cape Cod.

  Patty stared, then scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head hard.

  Bzeep zeep.

  The next time she looked, the billboard read Welcome to Tijuana! again.

  Lunging away from the sign, Patty continued down the street. She got a funny taste in her mouth, like dirt, and spat in the gutter on her way past.

  As she hauled herself onward, a little boy in a bright red soccer shirt and yellow shorts ran out of an alley in front of her.

  "No Cheek-lets!" said Patty, though the boy showed no sign of slowing down on his way past. "No five dollah!"

  The little boy didn't look back on his way down the street and around the corner.

  Patty thrashed her head from side to side but still couldn't get rid of the fog. She wondered if she'd picked up a flu or some-

  Bzeep zeep.

  "Where the fuck is that noise coming from?" Reaching up, she felt the lump between her eyes. It was still warm, warmer than it should have been if it was just some kind of growth.

  Suddenly, she smelled cooked food, and her mind switched tracks. A lovely little café came up on her left, and she stopped in front of it, inhaling deeply.

  The place was Cape Cod style all the way, from the white wicker chairs to the round tables with white tablecloths. A vase rested on each table, filled with a tasteful arrangement of gardenias and hyacinths. A slim, red-haired waitress walked out, smoothing her crisp white linen apron. She smiled and gave Patty a friendly wave.

  Bzeep zeep.

  A flicker later, and the place had become an ugly Mexican cantina that looked like it had been furnished right out of the town dump.

  As Patty watched, a brown-skinned waitress shuffled over to a male custome
r at one of the rickety tables with a steaming plate of sizzling chicken and vegetables. Patty's stomach started growling, which totally pissed her off.

  Because the one thing she hated more than Mexican people was Mexican food.

  "Fucking puke on a plate." So why was her mouth watering so much? Why did she want to run in there and fill her hands, squishing the greasy, steaming chicken between her fingers, then gobbling it up like a dog?

  Wheeling away from the cantina, she looked up and down the sunbaked street. Sweat rolling down her face and body, she tried figuring out where she was in the whole of The Cape, because none of the landmarks was ringing a bell.

  But she came up empty. Not a clue.

  Was she drunk? She didn't remember drinking. Had somebody slipped her a rufy?

  "Fuck." The blistering heat pressed in on her, and she suddenly felt faint. Her legs buckled. "I need J-"

  Bzeep zeep.

  Once again, the name on the tip of her tongue was gone. A wild chill poured through her, pure fear sweeping aside the intense heat.

  And then the hot flash was back. All she could think of was air conditioning.

  And a telephone.

  Indiscriminately, Patty staggered toward the door of a shop and heaved it open. She lurched inside and let the door bang shut behind her.

  Ding dong. An electric chime rang as Patty looked around. She felt only slightly cooler, but it might only have been because she was out of the sun. As far as she could tell, the shop had no air conditioning.

  But she was glad for even the slightest relief. And she was glad to see what kind of shop she'd stumbled into.

  The place smelled like stale cigarette smoke and some kind of incense. A light haze hung in the air, leaving a bitter aftertaste in her mouth.

  But the shop was also full of beautiful things. A ring of waist-high display cases encircled the walls, with a second, smaller ring of cases in the middle. Patty caught her breath as she wandered between them, peering in at a treasure trove of turquoise and silver and gold.

  It was the universal language. The one thing she could stand that had any connection to fucking Mehico.

  Jewelry.

  All the lights in the shop were switched off, but the litter of pieces in the cases still showed up fine. Bracelets and anklets and pendants gleamed softly, reflecting the light filtering in from outside. Earrings and brooches and belt buckles twinkled with a mystical inner glow.

  Patty smiled for the first time all day. She loved shopping, didn't she? Shopping on The Cape with Jan...

  Bzeep zeep.

  ...shopping with Jan...

  Bzeep zeep. Bzeep zeep.

  "Almost had it!" The nub between her eyes was warm under the skin as she rubbed it. "Almost had the name! Her name! Her name!"

  Bzeep zeep.

  "What the fuck?" All blank again.

  Patty tasted dirt and looked back into the display cases. The pale blue and silver and gold pieces were pretty as the tropical fish wriggling in their tanks in her favorite restaurant on The Cape.

  Suddenly, one of the pieces caught her eye--a shimmering gold bracelet on a panel of red velvet. It looked buttery soft and exotic, with rows of tiny links woven in a staggered pattern like the steps of an ancient pyramid.

  Staring at it gave her a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Or was it the incense?

  There was something inside her, hard as a knot. Jagged as a thorn bush. Pulsating, gyrating, straining to get out. Nothing like the nub between her eyes.

  Something much deeper.

  "May I help you, señora?" A slow, deep voice spoke from the back of the shop, threaded with a Mexican accent. "See anything you like?"

  Patty turned. An old man approached, short and slight, with thick gray hair. He wore glasses with rectangular lenses and silver wire frames, and he had a gray mustache.

  He stopped about six feet away from her. "May I help you?" he said.

  Gazing into his eyes, Patty felt a sharp pain in her chest. Did she know him?

  Bzeep zeep.

  There was a flicker, and she suddenly recognized him. His face was well known to her, unmistakably familiar. His eyes were filmy and bloodshot, sunk behind drooping lids, rimmed with networks of deep wrinkles. Of course she knew him, how could she not know her own f-

  Bzeep zeep.

  Patty clamped her hands around her head, but her thoughts fled like bees, buzzing away in all directions. If only she could hold on to just one, just long enough to...

  Bzeep zeep.

  It was him, it was her fa...

  Bzeep zeep.

  She cried out and doubled over. Bit down on her tongue and tasted blood, metallic and salty.

  There were tears in her eyes as she straightened. When she opened her eyes, she no longer recognized the old man. He was just a stranger, an old jeweler, a Mexican.

  During her spell, he'd retreated behind the counter along the wall. He lit a cigarette, and fresh, acrid smoke flowed into the air. When he spoke, his voice was sharper than before. "How may I help you, señora?"

  Patty looked down at the beautiful gold bracelet. She patted the back pockets of her jeans, feeling for a wallet...finding nothing. Finding more of the same when she fished in her front pockets. She didn't have a dime.

  A chill shot through her. Her bowels constricted like a clenching fist with sudden awareness.

  "I'm..." She frowned and rubbed the hard nub between her eyes. "I need..."

  Bzeep zeep.

  The shop blurred, becoming a quaint antique shop she knew quite well from The Cape. But the scene quickly shifted right back to the Mexican jewelry shop.

  Bzeep zeep.

  "Do you have a phone?" She walked over to the display case where the old jeweler stood. "I can't seem to find my cell, and I need to call home."

  The jeweler shook his head. "No calls to the U.S., señora. Local calls only."

  Patty planted her hands on the smooth glass of the case and laughed. "Since when is Cape Cod not in the U.S.?" She slapped the glass and laughed some more. "Don't'cha think you guys're taking this Cinco de Mayo shit a little too far?"

  The jeweler shrugged. "Perhaps you should buy a phone card at la farmacia. Good for international calls."

  "Yeah, right!" Patty kept laughing. Then, she caught a lungful of smoke and hacked until she gagged.

  The jeweler cleared his throat. "I think I know what you're looking for, señora."

  Yes. The thought punched through the fog, and Patty fixed him in her stare. "I'm looking for..." Looking for Jan...

  Bzeep zeep.

  A wave of dizziness coursed through her. "I need to find..."

  Bzeep zeep.

  She reeled against the case, clutching her spinning head. Tasting blood.

  "You need to go to the pulqueria." The old man pointed toward the front window of the shop. "They have what you're looking for there."

  "Puke-a-whata?" Patty grimaced.

  "Pulqueria," said the old man. "Go left two blocks, then make another left down the alley."

  "Fuck-a-who-a?" said Patty.

  The old jeweler sighed cigarette smoke and pointed at the window. "Left two blocks, then left again. They'll give you what you need. All the good, strong pulque you can drink." He nodded like a pimp arranging a date.

  Patty waved him off and stomped toward the door.

  Then stomped back again. She stopped at the case with the gold bracelet she loved and took a long look, drinking in every burnished link in the staggered rows, the steps.

  And something swam up in her, fast as a fish from the inky depths of the deep ocean, racing to reach the light before the monster snapping at its tail could gulp it down forever.

  "Somebody fell." Patty tapped the glass and frowned at the jeweler. "I remember. My fa..."

  Bzeep zeep.

  The jeweler's face became familiar again, became that of the old man she knew. Scowling, she grabbed at him, held him for a moment in her grip. He smelled like...smelled like...
/>
  ...bananas?

  "Somebody fell."

  Bzeep zeep.

  Suddenly, the familiar old man with his eyes wide with terror turned back into the Mexican jeweler, and his eyes were wide with rage.

  The next thing Patty knew, she was out on the sidewalk, wagging her head like a choking dog. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the door to the jewelry shop was shut tight, a sign swinging back and forth behind the glass.

  Cerrado. Closed.

  Remembering the old jeweler's directions, she turned left and shuffled down the street.

  *****

  Alzheimer's? Was that what she had? Motherfucking early onset Alzheimer's?

  That was what she thought as she moved along through the blazing sun, which felt hot enough to fry pork rinds on the sidewalk.

  "I wouldn't know, would I? If it was Alzheimer's, I wouldn't know." She said it out loud, talking to herself. "It would be just like this, just like this."

  Bzeep zeep.

  Except for that.

  Reaching up, she rubbed the sweaty lump between her eyes. She swore it was getting warmer every time she touched it.

  Her vision flickered, but nothing changed this time. She continued to rub the lump, which was hard as a rock. She wanted to dig it right out with her nails, right then, skin and blood and all.

  Bzeep zeep.

  But the urge passed so completely, she didn't remember having it.

  Up ahead, on the left, she saw an alley--the one the old jeweler had told her about. She walked up to it, turned the corner, and took a look down its filth-strewn, adobe-walled length.

  Bzeep zeep.

  With another flicker, it became one of The Cape's cozy, cobblestoned alleys, lined with well-tended clapboard houses on the historic register. Further along, there was another antique shop and an internet café, where she thought she might run into Jan...

  Bzeep zeep.

  Jan...

  Bzeep zeep.

  Janet! Got it! "That's her name!"

  Maybe she'd see Janet, sweet Janet, darling Janet, waving back at her, running up to her, saving her! Janet Janet Janet!

  Patty dug in for dear life, she had to hold on, couldn't lose her again. She had to keep remembering Janet--Janet smelling of sea breeze, skin soft as wine, hair dark as midnight.