Panama by Shelby Hiatt Page B

whole shitload of things to do," she says. She leans back on her red velvet settee and draws hard on a cigarette. She cocks her head to one side, grins, and looks me over. "Got yourself a young man?"
    "Yes. And there's no talking to my mother..."
    "Course not. Not her business." Mamie grins widely again. "Mothers don't know everything and they usually know the least about what they should know the most." I'm not exactly sure what she means. "Sex!" she says and laughs.
    Sex can be dangerous—I know that. A foolish mistake will always be with me, can shame and destroy Mother and Father. There's no need for that. Mamie can get it all under control. She goes dead serious.
    "How old are you, again?" she says.
    "Seventeen."
    "Mmm." She looks me over carefully. "You've done it with him?"
    "Yes. Once. I'm not pregnant."
    "Good, you're lucky. And smart—you're here. Good girl. Sorry you can't work for me." Another big laugh. I take the suggestion as a compliment. A couple of her "girls" sidle by in tatty chenille dressing gowns, pasty faces, and stringy hair, but it's early for them at eleven in the morning. They're just getting up. Others walk by in the hall with cups of coffee and what look like corn-bread muffins. They glance in and dismiss me with surly looks.
    The place is strange and I lied an hour earlier to get here. Told Mrs. Ewing I felt sick and she sent me home. I'll need another lie tomorrow to get back in class, but it will be only a half lie—my time of the month and discomfort, et cetera. Perfect. A love affair is no simple matter and it isn't all romance.
    "I'll tell you something, sweetheart," Mamie says. "There's an old method just right for you. Dates, acacia, a little honey—grind them together, dip it in cotton wool, and put it right in there. Acacia ferments, becomes lactic acid—that's a worldwide spermicide." The laugh again. "Just right for a worldwide young man ... where's he from?"
    "Spain," I say, and I don't smile. "I suspect sperm are the same everywhere."
    Her face goes straight and she says, "I really am sorry you can't work for me."
Fifty-Two
    There is everything in Panama among the locals. Making my way through the vendors outside the Navajo, I find acacia quick enough. I know I won't find it at the commissary. Honey and dates Mother has at home—she makes wonderful date bread. The acacia is cheap and there's plenty.
    Later in the evening, alone in the kitchen with Mother's mortar and pestle, I blend my little concoction and wonder how long it will be good. If fermentation is so important, maybe age is a good thing, and I regret not asking Mamie about that. But I conclude that if it's such a crucial matter she would have told me. I can make small amounts as needed. I'm ready.
    But I don't hear from Federico for several days.
    Up to now that hasn't been unusual, but after what happened in the gazebo, I don't know what to think. He isn't there after the art class either. I wait in the darkness outside a long time, then go back inside and chat.
(What era was Poussin? And what were the politics? I love the way you're doing your hair.)
I have to escape.
    He isn't at the Tivoli when I pass there on Sunday with Mother and Father.
    He isn't at any of our regular meeting places, which baffles me, and I toughen myself for the worst. I resolve not to be a whimpering sissy. I can barely make myself imagine what this could mean.
    More days go by.
    He's dropped out of sight. I can't sleep. At school I can't concentrate or work. I have to do something.
    It's one more time along the track at night after another "sketching on the steps" excuse for Mother—slouched hat and jodhpurs.
    I climb the stairs to his cabin. I feel nervous and out of place, much worse than the first time I went there. Everything seems so complicated. I never imagined how sex could complicate things. At the door I can see his cot. It's empty—only Augusto is there.
    "Augusto..." He looks up, surprised.
"Federico