“He’s got this little Mexican chickie who goes down there every day. He’s balling her eyes out.” He snickered.
“Jesus, she’s about fourteen.”
Debbie lay in the darkness.
“So,” he poked at her, “what do you think?”
She thought at that moment that she didn’t love him and from that moment the thought never left her. She had been with him for two years, had followed him, sat waiting for him to come back from whatever dream he was on – forest ranger, farmer, any dream of a good, easy, close-to-the-land life. The way it should be, he said.
This trip was supposed to be the end of all that, the last vacation. That’s what she told herself as they drove down the coast to Ensenada. When the few hundred dollars they had was gone, they would begin their life.
Now, in the darkness, she knew they were in another useless dream and there would be another one after this one. And, so it began. It started with the shaking.
When she came back from the market the next day, Diana and Eric and Michael were gone, down at Hussong’s or on the never to be finished boat or at the wharf with the Captain. She cooked the meal, smoked a joint, and waited for their return.
The panic began with the cockroach that reached for her from the food. Filled with disgust, she ran to the porch. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. Even in the heat, she was cold.
She knew all she had to do was come down and she would feel better. It was only the marijuana and this shabby, empty house. She would come down and go find them and everything would be all right.
She could hear the roach scratching back in the kitchen, somewhere in the garbage, in the food. The disgust turned to fear. She was not coming down.
In the bathroom, another roach swam in the toilet, reaching for her with thin brown antennae. She gagged and vomited as the water moved around in a sluggish flush.
“Debbie,” said the voice. “Debbie.”
She turned to it, jerking her head.
“Debbie,” came the echo.
It was her own voice. The fear was in her.
“What’s the matter, Debbie?” it taunted. “What’s the matter with you?”
Bad dope, angel dust dope. It would all go away soon. It would. It didn’t.
By the time the others came in drunk and laughing, she was deep in the bed in the raspberry-walled room, shaking with the fear.
“Hi, baby.” Michael crawled in next to her. “Why didn’t you come down to Hussong’s? Didn’t you know we were there?”
“Please don’t touch me,” she cried. “Don’t touch me.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m sick, really sick. I think it was the grass. Michael, I have to go to the hospital. Please.” She was curled far from him.
“No, honey, it’s okay,” he reached for her. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m scared, really scared,” she whimpered.
From the tunnel of her mind, the voice called to her.
“And you don’t even love him. He’s all you’ve got and you don’t even love him.”
“Please, I need to go back to the border,” she begged. “I need to go home.”
“Honey,” he put his arms around her, “I can’t take you back tonight. Come on. Everything will be okay in the morning.” He smelled of tequila, his voice heavy and thick.
She said nothing. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t protect her, couldn’t. She had no one to protect her. She wasn’t coming down now, not ever. The panic had moved to terror. She would sleep and wake up like this. Yes, she would.
“Take a Valium,” he said, his voice muffled by the approach of sleep. “That will help. It’s some bad dope. Happens to everybody once in a while.”
Oh, no, he wasn’t going to take her back, not now, and tomorrow would be too late. How to keep the terror away and the voice? She didn’t want the voice. Count, that was it. She would count. One, two, three, four. She concentrated on each number and each number that followed.
Later in the bathroom, she vomited until she was empty and the dry heaves started. At least, and she was thankful for this, she felt sane enough to be sick. It wasn’t the dope. She knew that. This was the way she was going to be tomorrow and every day after and she hadn’t the strength to fight it for long.
Back in bed, she began counting again. One, two, three, four, five. She held onto each number, not letting another thought slip in, because if she did the tunnel would open up and the voice would start.
The fear tasted like a copper penny.
“Wait until tomorrow. It’ll be okay,” Michael mumbled to her from his sleep. “Don’t worry.”
She took a second Valium and began to count again.
Over the toilet she dug her nails into the inside of her thighs. The pain felt good. It was better than listening to her mind.
Wait till tomorrow, that’s what Michael said. It will be okay, he said.
It was better but not good. She could hold back the fear but she knew it was in her eyes. She was terrified they, anybody, would see it, see what she had become.
“God, sometimes I get so nervous,” the Captain’s blond lady said as they sat in the sun.
“I mean, I worry about him and what’s going to happen to him.” The bikini top barely covered the large, long breasts.
“I almost panic. I mean, jail in Mexico ain’t no kick.”
Diana and Debbie nodded over their rum-and-Cokes as they sat in the brown silence that came with any talk of the Captain.
Diana sighed.
“I get so tired of the smoking,” she said. “I mean, who needs that much dope?”
“I know, I know,” Debbie quickly agreed. “I’ve stopped. I mean, it is really frightening. I had a bad time a few weeks ago,” she said of the experience two nights before.
The other women looked at her.
“Yes. I think it was angel dust or something,”
