Renewal

"Why not?" George countered. "I'd bet that you'd look good in one!"

"Oh be quiet!" she scolded in mocked irritation. "I'm too old for such things and you're just teasing me." Secretly, she loved hearing him say it.

"You're not too old." George insisted, but received no answer in return. "I wouldn't mind seeing you in one," he asserted, pressing harder for a response.

"Ohhh, I knew that I shouldn't have fallen asleep on you last night! Now you'll be impossible." It was the answer George was hoping for.

************

Their banter about the bathing suits took George back to 1946. They were driving home from their honeymoon in Chicago. They bought some sandwiches and lemonade for lunch at a little diner in a small Illinois town.

"There's a nice place for a picnic a few miles out on Route 34," the waitress told them. "It's right on your way. You just have to be sure to find the cutoff road."

They decided to have the sandwiches wrapped to go. The waitress smiled after them as they headed for the car. They found the dirt road with ease and spotted a grove of trees in the distance where the creek cut through the prairie.

Once, it might have been a nice picnic area, but it hadn't been used or attended to for years. The tall grass had overgrown the several old tables. At first they were going to just sit in the car and eat, but the creek running through the glade looked so inviting. They decided to mat down some of the grass and make a place for themselves beside the creek.

The sandwiches went down fast, but they decided to spend some extra time in the relaxing place. They discussed their impending move to Des Moines where George had a job in the State Highway Department waiting. Helen would seek a job in the Public Library until they had their family started. George mentioned that he thought that he could start his own company one day. Helen shrugged and said 'maybe'. George asked if they could name their first 'George, Jr.'

"What if it's a girl?" Helen protested. George was stunned at the suggestion. He hadn't thought of it as a possibility.

The midday sun was hot. It was almost time to get back on the road. The creek beside them slowed in the flat countryside and pooled to a slow-draining pond under the trees.

"Great spot!" George thought out loud. Helen nodded in agreement.

"I'll bet that water's nice and cool," he hinted.

"It probably is," Helen agreed, unsuspecting.

"Let's go for a swim." George suggested.

"It would be nice, George, but our suits are packed and..." She spied his evil grin and slowly discerned the meaning. "No—not a chance!" she declared, incredulous and on defense, but George had already stripped off his shirt.

"C'mon!" he urged "No one has been here in years." He was at her, unbuttoning her cotton dress. She raised her arms to her chest to stop him, but he had his hands under the skirt, stroking the flesh of her thighs.

"Stop, George!" she whimpered, but the seeds of excitement were already sewn and he detected the hint of a naughty laugh. She protested to the end, but somehow their clothing lay in a heap in the grass as they waded out into the pond.

He had seen her nude many times during their honeymoon, but always in the safe space of their hotel room. It was different out in nature, in the sunlight. To him, she was even firmer and more beautiful than before. They took temporary ownership of the deserted pond, like Adam and Eve. The sun kissed her skin. Once nude, she lost her shyness. She was risking with him; unashamed to be naked with him; relishing his desire for her. She would give it all to him.

They made love in the grass after cooling themselves in the water. They lay there nude, unafraid.

He was lying on his back. She came along side and hovered over him, propped on her elbow.

"I think I might have just become pregnant," she told him, finishing her rhythm-method calculations. She waited for his response.

"I hope that you are," he answered immediately and then kissed her.

She was mistaken; she wouldn't conceive for over a year. It didn't matter. What took place at that little pond in the countryside in Illinois answered many questions.

*********

"I wonder if that grove of trees with the creek and pond are still there." George wondered to himself.

They finished their dinners and were having coffee. They would be landing in forty-five minutes. Helen fumbled through her purse checking for passports and hotel information. In a way, she was still keeping the books. It was the third time she had checked them. It was her first trip outside of the United States.

Katherine did a nice job arranging the reception, didn't she?" George changed the subject to take Helen's mind off her worries.

"Yes, especially doing it long-distance from Ames." she answered.

Katherine was their youngest, now twenty-three and an Assistant Librarian on the Iowa State campus. As her brothers had followed their father into the road construction business, she had emulated her mother in studying Library Science in college. She looked more like her father than her mother, tall and slender.

She married soon after college graduation. Her groom was a grad student in Agriculture. Her parents urged her to wait; she wouldn't. In the end George and Helen accepted her marriage and her husband. It all seemed to be working out.

Katherine had been a 'Daddy's Girl' until she went off to college. After that, she and her mother became closer. She used up her vacation to arrange all the details of the big day. Davy and Jim had larger salaries and paid for it. Katherine could only contribute hard work. She had done well.

"Everything went off perfectly," George attested.

"It would have been completely perfect if George, Jr. had been there," Helen sighed.

George, Jr. was the couple's first born and lived three years. Meningitis took him. The lost child was never far from their thoughts. It was a bitter blow that many families faced. The toddler died as Helen was expecting Katherine and caring for Davy and Jim. The grieving parents buttressed one another in sorrow. George's parents helped. The shared suffering made Helen and George's mother very close. The death hit Helen hardest because she was quarantined from the sick child because of her condition. The boy died one night in the hospital in George's arms. It was impossible to go through a Christmas or major family event without evoking Helen's recollections.

"If he could be here he would tell us not to be sad—life goes on," George reminded her.

"I know, George. I don't think that I will ever get completely over it," she admitted.

"I don't expect you to," George soothed. "I won't either. Everything in its place" He took her hand in his own.

George was actually glad that the subject had come up. He knew that it would sooner or later—better sooner. He didn't try to talk to her more. She needed some time to silently sort her way through it once again. He picked up a magazine from the seat pocket in front of him and started to thumb through it. She would come around soon enough after she dealt with her feelings.

The plane started its descent. The stewardess started stowing things away and picking up cups. The seatbelt sign lit. They were almost there. The captain announced their imminent arrival in Cancun. It had been a long trip; it was almost over.

Cancun is a resort at the eastern-most point on the Yucatan Peninsula. It is a manufactured resort in the sense that the Mexican government decided to establish one there in the 1960's as an economic development project. It is known for its beautiful, warm, aqua-colored waters, white-sand beaches and abundant sea life. In contrast with the Pacific resorts that feature powerful surf and impressive sunsets over the ocean, Cancun's waters are placid.

It had been a long trip. They started out in Des Moines at nine that morning in the cold and snow. They landed nine hours later at six o'clock in the tropics. It would take another hour, at least, to collect their luggage and clear customs.

They sat patiently as the plane taxied to the terminal. Suddenly, Helen gasped and thrust her face into her hands. She turned and looked at George.

"What did we forget?" he asked, puzzled.

"Your golf clubs!" she answered. "They were in the garage, ready to go and we completely forgot them."

"No, I left them on purpose." George mumbled.

"Why, George?" she looked at him incredulously. She pondered for a moment. "Oh, dear; it's your tendonitis acting up again, isn't it?" she answered her own question, shaking her head in sympathy.

"Maybe the warm weather will be good for it," George said dismissively.

**********

They finally reached the hotel at eight-thirty. It had been a trying time. They finally found their luggage that had missed the plane in Chicago and sent on another flight. By the time they resolved it the rest of the flight had cleared customs. The customs inspector had nothing to do, so he searched every one of their bags. A tactful mordida would have solved the problem, but George was a man of principle.

Most of the arriving guests had already checked in by the time they arrived at the Hotel Krystal, one of the best in Cancun. George finished signing the registration card and the clerk looked about nervously for a bellman. There weren't many about. Most left for the day with the majority of the guests neatly tucked in their rooms. The clerk slammed his hand down on the bell. "¡Arriba—Frente!"" he yelled.

Finally, a bellman came into view. He wasn't really a man, but a boy who looked to be fifteen. Perhaps, even, his hard circumstances made him look older than he truly was. He had a hard time filling his uniform. The name tag on his uniform read 'Francisco'. The desk clerk motioned him to the American couple. Helen immediately liked him.

"¡Si, señor!" he approached shyly. George motioned to the bags and handed the youth the room key.

They followed Francisco as he piled their luggage on a cart and headed for the elevators.

************

The elevator door opened. George, Helen and Francisco crowded in, along with the cart carrying the luggage. There was little activity and no one else joined them. The doors closed and Francisco pressed the button. The disk with a twelve illuminated. All were silent as the elevator car ascended through the floors.

It stopped on the ninth floor. George and Helen shuffled to the side to make room. The door slowly folded to the side. A group of three youths crowded into the elevator car.

It was obvious that they weren't hotel guests, nor were they hotel employees. Their manner and dress were rough. They wore sneering expressions as they eyed the middle-aged gringo couple and undersized bellhop. George guessed them to be about eighteen. He looked at Helen, who looked back nervously.

As the elevator restarted its ascent, one of the youths pressed the 'ten' button. The elevator stopped again. As the door started to swing open, the largest youth grabbed Francisco, knocked him to the floor and started rifling his pockets for his tips. Helen let out a cry of alarm and fear. The others each grabbed a suitcase and headed for the door. George followed them.

He caught one of them. The burden of the suitcase slowed him too much to get away from the older man. George took hold of his captive and threw him against the wall. The stunned youth released his hold on the suitcase, and then fell into a planter. The third youth had stopped, looking back to find his compatriots. He saw George rushing toward him. He chose discretion over valor; he dropped the suitcase and ran away.

George turned back to the elevator where Francisco and Helen tenaciously were holding onto the third miscreant. George grasped him.

"Give it back!" he shouted at the struggling youth. "Give it back!" He grabbed hold of an arm and slammed it into the side of the open elevator door. There was a yelp of pain. The clenched fist opened and the money in it fell to the floor. George released him and he ran off to join his fellow failed conspirators. George stepped into the hall to retrieve their suitcases. Helen bent down to pick up the salvaged money and handed it to Francisco. A crowd of guests, by that time had emerged from their rooms to investigate the noise. George looked around to see them gawking at the curiosity. He took hold of Francisco's arm and patted him on the back.

"A good man!" he declared to them all, motioning to Francisco.

They disappeared back into the elevator and continued to their floor. When they entered their room Francisco was downcast.

"Lo siento mucho, señor." he said with a shaking voice. "Sir, I...am...sorry," he struggled with the little English he knew. He picked up the room telephone and called the desk, speaking briefly in Spanish. He handed the receiver to George.

"Señor, we apologize for what happened." The desk spoke in English over the phone. "Francisco has explained everything. We are sending our security agent to speak with you. Francisco will stay with you until he arrives."

George related the story to the agent when he arrived. There was not much to tell. The detective nodded and took notes. He repeated the hotel's apology.

"You've got a pretty good man here in this young lad! He really watched out for us," George told the detective, slapping Francisco on the back. It was only partly true. He just wanted to protect the boy from being fired.

"Si, he is one of our best," the detective agreed, patting the young bellhop on the head.

At that point there was a knock on the door. The detective opened it. A busboy entered carrying an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne chilling in it.

"It is compliments of the hotel," The detective explained. "We hope that it will compensate for any inconvenience."

"Thank the hotel, please," George said. He reached into his pocket and took out a roll of American bills.

"Francisco, this is for you." George said, peeling off a ten.

The boy looked at the tip in shock. It was more than he had earned for then entire night.

"¡No, señor, la propina es demasiada!" Francisco protested.

"He is saying that it is too much, señor. It is a very big tip." The detective explained.

"Tell him to take it before the tax man gets it." quipped George to the puzzled pair. He sensed that they didn't understand his sarcasm. He tried again. "Tell Francisco that I want him to have it, please," he said more simply.

"¡Está bien!" the detective told the lad.

The boy paused for a moment in thought. Then he smiled broadly, partly in pride, his good fortune and in friendship. "Me llamo 'Pancho'. Gracias, señor."

"He wants you to call him 'Pancho'. It is the nickname of 'Francisco'."

"Pancho!" George nodded.

"¡Buenos noches!" the two Mexicans said their goodbyes and left Helen and George to themselves with their champagne.

***********

Helen finished unpacking their suitcases and arranging things in the room. It was ten o'clock. She opened the sliding glass door that led to a small balcony. There was a small wrought iron table and a set of chairs. She looked into the blackness of the water. The darkness erased any horizon. There were only some lights on the beach twelve floors below. She could faintly hear the waves breaking on the shore.

An onshore breeze embraced her and wafted into the room behind her. It felt nice. It was a warm tropical breeze, but the night blunted the oppressive daytime heat. Helen judged the natural air more pleasant than the artificial coolness of the room. She went inside and shut off the air conditioner.

"Let's have the champagne out on the balcony," Helen called to George in the bathroom.

"That's my thinking, too," George said as he emerged from the closed door. He had already changed into his cotton pajama bottoms.

"Why don't you open the champagne while I change out of these clothes? I've been in them all day," Helen said as she disappeared into the bathroom.

George carried the bucket with the ice and unopened bottle onto the balcony. After some twisting and pulling the champagne cork surrendered and he poured himself a glass. He knew better than to pour one for Helen. Experience taught him that she would be awhile. It would be pointless to complain; his urgings would fall on deaf ears. He decided to be patient and enjoy the champagne.

George put his feet up on the balcony rail. He concentrated on the air blowing across the bare skin of his chest and shoulders. He heard the waves below. It had been decades since he had seen salt water. Helen never had. Tomorrow they would go swimming. He reminded himself to make sure they used plenty of suntan lotion in the tropical sun. He forgot about the earlier incident in elevator, except for his new friend, Francisco, who allowed him to use the nickname 'Pancho'. He finished his glass of champagne and poured himself another.

George heard the bathroom door open from inside the room. He didn't turn to look; he knew that it was Helen. It was a faster exit from the bathroom than he was used to. He poured her out a glass of champagne. The scent of her cologne preceded her onto the balcony. She sat in the chair beside George.

"The balcony is nice," she said as she took her first sip. "Why don't we leave it open tonight and leave the air conditioner off?" George nodded in agreement. "This room reminds me of our hotel on our wedding night," she declared in a soft voice.

George glanced over. She had changed into a nightgown, but he couldn't see the details as she had also donned a white peignoir. She was barefoot, as he was. The makeup and grime from the day's traveling had been scrubbed from her face. His interest piqued at her sentimental remembrance.

"How so?" he asked, in an effort to encourage her to reveal more.

"It was a warm night, then," she began. "There was a balcony just like here. We looked out over the Mississippi, just like we're on the Caribbean now."

"True enough!" George confirmed. "We had champagne, too."

"Yes, but I didn't have a chance to drink any," she giggled. "And you didn't have to beat anyone up to get it," she teased.

"You remember a lot," George said.

"I remember everything," she clarified.

"I didn't beat anyone up." he corrected her. "I just encouraged them to leave."

"I know," she acknowledged. "I also noticed that your shoulder seemed fine while you were doing it. So, what about this 'tendonitis' and what really happened to your golf clubs?"

"I never said that my shoulder was acting up," he answered evasively. "You just assumed it."

"The question still stands." She knew him too well to settle for one of his opaque explanations.

George paused, seeking the right way to frame his reply. He gulped down the last swallow of his champagne.

"You see, Helen," he began to explain, "I left them behind because..." George leaned closer to her. He stroked her petite shoulder and then cupped her face with his powerful hand. Helen's questioning eyes searched into his.

"I left the golf clubs in Des Moines because...I just don't think that I would ever be able to make those early tee times."

Helen gasped at his answer. It reminded her of her pearls bought by another sacrifice of golf clubs a long time ago.

"George, you could have..."

"I just didn't want to."

"Come into the bedroom," she breathed. "I have something to show you."

The hotel room was dimly lit by a lamp beside the bed. George noticed that she had turned down the covers before her entrance on the patio. On the warm night, with the ocean breeze to soothe them, they would need only a sheet at the most. Helen walked, with tiny steps to the side of the bed, George obediently behind her. Her beckoning told him to expect something special. The dim light faintly outlined her, lending mystery to the scene.