Mrs. Wheatley’s voice sounded faint and anxious. “You might have called.”
“I’m sorry,” Beth said. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“I wouldn’t have minded…”
“Anyway, I’m all right. And I’m going to Cincinnati to see a movie. I won’t be home tonight either.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line.
“I’ll be back after school Monday.”
Finally, Mrs. Wheatley spoke. “Are you with a boy?”
“I was last night.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Wheatley’s voice sounded distant. “Beth…”
Beth laughed. “Come on,” she said. “I’m all right.”
“Well…” She still sounded grave, then her voice became lighter. “I suppose it’s all right. It’s just that—”
Beth smiled. “I won’t get pregnant,” she said.
At noon she put the rest of the eggs in a pot to boil and turned on the hi-fi. She had never really listened to music before, but she listened now. She danced a few steps in the middle of the living room, waiting for the eggs. She would not let herself get sick. She would eat frequently and drink one beer—or one glass of wine—every hour. She had made love the night before, and now it was time to learn about being drunk. She was alone, and she liked it. It was the way she had learned everything important in her life.
At four in the afternoon she walked into Larry’s Package Store, a block from the apartment, and bought a fifth of Ripple. When the man was putting it in the bag, she said, “Do you have a wine like Ripple that’s not so sweet?”
“These soda-pop wines are all the same,” the man said.
“What about burgundy?” Sometimes Mrs. Wheatley ordered burgundy with her dinner when they ate out.
“I’ve got Gallo, Italian Swiss Colony, Paul Masson…”
“Paul Masson,” Beth said. “Two bottles.”
That night at eleven she was able to get undressed by being careful. She had found a pair of pajamas earlier and she managed to get them on and to pile her clothes on a chair before getting into bed and passing out.
No one had come back by morning. She made scrambled eggs and ate them with two pieces of toast before having her first glass of wine. It was another sunny day. In the living room she found Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons.” She put it on. Then she began drinking in earnest.
On Monday morning Beth took a taxi to Henry Clay High School and arrived ten minutes before her first class. She had left the apartment empty and clean; the owners had not yet returned from Cincinnati. Most of the wrinkles had hung out of her sweater and skirt, and she had washed her argyle socks. She had drunk the second bottle of burgundy Sunday night and slept soundly for ten hours. Now, in the taxi, there was a dim ache at the back of her head and her hands trembled slightly, but outside the window the May morning was exquisite, and the green of the young leaves on trees was delicate and fresh. By the time she paid and got out she felt light and springy, ready to go ahead and finish high school and devote her energy to chess. She had three thousand dollars in her savings account; she was no longer a virgin; and she knew how to drink.
There was an embarrassed silence when she came home after school. Mrs. Wheatley, wearing a blue housedress, was mopping the kitchen floor. Beth settled herself on the sofa and picked up Reuben Fine’s book on the endgame. It was a book she hated. She had seen a can of Pabst on the side of the sink, but she did not want any. It would be better not to drink anything for a long while. She had had enough.
When Mrs. Wheatley finished, she set the mop against the refrigerator and came into the living room. “I see you’re back,” she began. Her voice was carefully neutral.
Beth looked at her. “I had a good time,” she said.
Mrs. Wheatley seemed uncertain what attitude to take. Finally she allowed herself a small smile. It was surprisingly shy, like a girl’s smile. “Well,” she said, “chess isn’t the only thing in life.”
Beth graduated from high school in June, and Mrs. Wheatley gave her a Bulova watch. The back of the case read “With love from Mother.” She liked that, but what she liked better was the rating that came in the maiclass="underline" 2243. At the school party, several other graduates offered Beth surreptitious drinks, but she refused. She had fruit punch and went home early. She needed to study; she would be playing her first international tournament, in Mexico City, in two weeks, and after that came the United States Championship. She had been invited to the Remy-Vallon in Paris, at the end of the summer. Things were beginning to happen.
EIGHT
An hour after the plane crossed the border, Beth was absorbed in pawn-structure analysis and Mrs. Wheatley was drinking her third bottle of Cerveza Corona. “Beth,” Mrs. Wheatley said, “I have a confession to make.”
Beth put the book down, reluctantly.
Mrs. Wheatley seemed nervous. “Do you know what a pen pal is, dear?”
“Someone you trade letters with.”
“Exactly! When I was in high school, our Spanish class was given a list of boys in Mexico who were studying English. I picked one and sent him a letter about myself.” Mrs. Wheatley gave a little laugh. “His name was Manuel. We corresponded for a long time—even while I was married to Allston. We exchanged photographs.” Mrs. Wheatley opened her purse, rummaged through it and produced a bent snapshot which she handed to Beth. It was a picture of a thin-faced man, surprisingly pale-looking, with a pencil-thin mustache. Mrs. Wheatley hesitated and said, “Manuel will be meeting us at the airport.”
Beth had no objection to this; it might even be a good thing to have a Mexican friend. But she was put off by Mrs. Wheatley’s manner. “Have you met him before?”
“Never.” She leaned over in her seat and squeezed Beth’s forearm. “You know, I’m really quite thrilled.”
Beth could see that she was a little drunk. “Is that why you wanted to come down early?”
Mrs. Wheatley pulled back and straightened the sleeves of her blue cardigan. “I suppose so,” she said.
“Si como no?” Mrs. Wheatley said. “And he dresses so well, and opens doors for me and orders dinner beautifully.” She was pulling up her pantyhose as she talked, tugging fiercely to get them over her broad hips.
They were probably fucking—Mrs. Wheatley and Manuel Córdoba y Serano. Beth did not let herself visualize it. Mrs. Wheatley had come back to the hotel at about three that morning, and at two-thirty the night before. Beth, pretending to be asleep, had smelled the ripe mix of perfume and gin while Mrs. Wheatley fumbled around the room, undressing and sighing.
“I thought at first it was the altitude,” Mrs. Wheatley said. “Seven thousand three hundred and fifty feet.” Sitting down at the little brass vanity bench, she leaned forward on one elbow and began rouging her cheeks. “It makes a person positively giddy. But I think now it’s the culture.” She stopped and turned to Beth. “There is no hint of a Protestant ethic in Mexico. They are all Latin Catholics, and they all live in the here and now.” Mrs. Wheatley had been reading Alan Watts. “I think I’ll have just one margarita before I go out. Would you call for one, honey?”
Back in Lexington, Mrs. Wheatley’s voice would sometimes have a distance to it, as though she were speaking from some lonely reach of an interior childhood. Here in Mexico City the voice was distant but the tone was theatrically gay, as though Alma Wheatley were savoring an incommunicable private mirth. It made Beth uneasy. For a moment she wanted to say something about the expensiveness of room service, even measured in pesos, but she didn’t. She picked up the phone and dialed six. The man answered in English. She told him to send a margarita and a large Coke to 713.