The Moon Child's Promise

by Lucille Mullen Sondern (iUniverse, 2006)

ISBN-10: 0595675581, ISBN-13: 978-0595675586 hardcover
ISBN-10: 0595377440, ISBN-13: 978-0595377442 softcover

The Moon Child's Promise is available at the following online stores:
iUniverse, Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

The Moon Child’s Promise

Chapter 7

            The intercom crackled.  The Captain’s voice said, “We’ll be on the ground in Merida in a few minutes.  Have your documents ready for customs.”  He repeated the warning in a musical language Maggie recognized as Spanish. Maggie opened her purse to check her landing documents: Birth certificate, tourist application, customs declaration, all in order.  She was ready.
            “Good-bye,” the flight attendant said. “Thanks for flying with us.  Just follow the crowd into customs.” 
            Maggie thanked the woman for making her flight so pleasant.  She wanted to ask for encouragement, to confide her uneasiness at entering the unknown.  Then she shrugged.  She’d figure things out.
            The plane door opened.  Maggie hurried down the narrow steps to the tarmac and pulled her small bag across it to the terminal building. The brown grass around the building reminded her of Kansas during a dry spell.  The late afternoon heat felt like a steaming blanket covering her.
            She recoiled at the long lines of travelers queued up to pass through customs.  Hearing a babble of languages, she again glimpsed the magnitude of her task.  Then she relaxed. It’s O.K, everybody understands English.
            The line moved faster than she expected. Signs around the walls advertised hotels, restaurants, and tourist attractions.  She wished she could read the words. When she got to the customs desk, a stocky dark man reached for her papers. He checked the tourist form, removed his copy, and returned hers.  “Save this.  You will need it to leave Mexico.”
            He scanned her birth certificate, glanced to see if the birth date seemed accurate.
            “No passport, eh?  Do you have picture I.D.?”
            Maggie handed him her driver’s license, nervous at letting it out of her hands.  The official studied her picture, smiled, and returned the license. He initialed her card and nodded.  “Enjoy your stay in Mexico.”  He waved her toward a doorway that said ‘salida’.
            She went through it and down a corridor to the baggage area. Here the babble heightened as travelers milled around the carousels, jostling to grab their luggage as it swung by.  Maggie lost her bearings.  She couldn’t remember what direction she’d come from or decide where to go next.
            When her case came by, she lunged for it and missed.  A man seized it and handed it to her.  Smiling, he pointed her toward Customs Inspection and she lined up. Maggie reminded herself she had nothing to worry about.  She’d taped the customs documents to the box of ashes. The funeral director had pressed the envelope into her hands.  “Be sure to hold onto this.  It says we’ve inspected the contents before sealing it, and swear no drugs are enclosed.  Officials are touchy about paperwork.”
            Despite her reassurances, Maggie trembled with nervousness.
            Travelers in line ahead of her pressed a button.  A light came on, randomly red or green, that determined whether the baggage needed to be searched.  When Maggie pressed the button, the light glowed red.  It seemed to focus a mystical energy in the cavernous terminal.  A presence, vast and ageless, called her to adventure.  She shivered. She lifted her cases to the long table, opened them as instructed and displayed the contents.
            When she unzipped her smaller case, the plastic box seemed to glow, as if the ashes were alive.
            The customs official wore a tag on her lapel that said “Morales.”  She was about Maggie’s age, though her stern manners made her seem older.  She checked the information on the customs declaration.  “You are Señora Loveless?
            Maggie nodded, and continued to nod as the woman read through the items:  “From Kansas, U.S.A.?  Traveling alone?   Trip for pleasure?”
            “Pleasure,” Maggie said.  “I’ve always wanted to see Mexico.”  She felt under the box for the envelope.
            Señora Morales brushed aside the flattery.  “Yet you have no passport.”  She pointed to the container.  “Is this what you wish to declare?  Remove it, please.”
            Maggie lifted the heavy box and hugged it, like a mother reluctant to surrender a sick child to a nurse. The envelope was not on it. She held her breath.
            “What is in this box?”
            Maggie swallowed.  “It’s ashes.  My aunt’s ashes.  She wanted them scattered in Mexico, she liked it here, she...”
            The woman’s black eyes stopped her.  Maggie released the box.
            Señora Morales raised thick eyebrows.  “Where are the documents to clear Customs?”
            Maggie threw up her hands.  “I don’t know.  I had them when I packed.  May I search my suitcases?”
            “By all means.”  The customs inspector folded her arms and waited as Maggie shook out garments.  Her eyes widened as she observed the heap of rainbow lingerie. “What is your occupation, Señora Loveless?”
            Maggie felt shame at her impulsive indulgence. She’d brought the entire collection. Why? She threw up her hands again. “I just quit my job in a lingerie shop.”
            “So much underwear for one week.  You will sell this finery in Mexico? No?”
            “No.  I’m going to scatter Aunt Emily’s ashes and go home.”  Maggie wanted to cry.
            “You are not planning to work in Mexico?”
            Annoyed at the reiteration, Maggie shook her head. Señora Morales looked severe.  “Please, close your cases and follow me.”
            She led the way into a small beige room with a desk and plastic chairs.  Bright tropical posters relieved the plain walls. The woman indicated a chair, picked up the phone, and spoke in rapid Spanish.  Maggie heard the words, “Sin comprobante” several times.  Then she said to Maggie, “Open your cases.  We will wait.”
            Maggie complied. What would it be like to be guilty of a serious crime and be facing a grilling? Had she the right to a lawyer? She wished she’d read up on Mexico’s laws and customs.
            A bronzed official in visor cap, khaki shirt and knife-pleated trousers pushed open the door.  His lips, beneath a thin black mustache, curved in a cordial smile that did not reach his black eyes.  He positively enjoys catching smugglers, Maggie thought as she shook his proffered hand.
            “Ah, Señora Loveless.” He smirked. “I am Major José Montoya.” He grunted as he hefted the box of ashes. “What have we here? “ He leaned closer and his words exploded in Maggie’s ears. “You bring a LARGE BOX OF POWDER, WITH NO DOCUMENTS.  YOU ARE ‘SIN COMPROBANTE.’”
            He waited for her to comprehend the gravity of the situation, and then his stern face relaxed.  He assumed the chair beside her and beamed good will. Maggie remembered Mother St. Joseph’s tactics at the Academy.  The old nun had taken the same genial attitude to get her to incriminate herself. 
            “What is in this box?” Major Montoya continued when she didn’t answer. “Perhaps dangerous drugs; a large quantity.  Perhaps ashes. We do not know that your aunt is dead.  How do you prove what you say?”
            Now that the ordeal was upon her, Maggie relaxed.  She considered asking to call her lawyer. But she wasn’t sure whether he’d be in his office or in court. She’d try to extricate herself first.
            “I had the papers,” Maggie said, in a friendly tone. “I must have misplaced them when I packed.  Will you please call the funeral home that cremated Aunt Emily?”
            The Major frowned.  Did he consider her bossy? She wanted to say more, to appease him, and then recalled her policy in dealing with Mother St. Joseph.  Tell the truth, but don’t volunteer.  She sat, knees together, hands folded on her wrinkled black suit.
            “Señora, let us begin at the beginning.  Whose ashes are these?”
            Maggie took a deep breath.  “My great-aunt, Emily O’Toole, died last Friday.  Her last request was that I scatter her ashes in the Yucatan.”  She sketched in, for him and for Señora Morales, who took notes, everything she wanted them to know about Emily.
Somehow, when the questioning started, Montoya moved to the chair behind the desk and the Señora took her place next to Maggie.
            “So, you lack documents for this interesting story.  Tomorrow, the chemist will analyze the ashes.  Our staff will call Kansas City to verify Senorita O’Toole’s death.”
            “Tomorrow?  No. I cannot let Emily’s ashes out of my hands.  Also a tour guide is meeting me.  He may leave if I’m late.  Can’t you please call the funeral home?”
            “Perhaps.”  The major maintained his geniality.  “We can reschedule with the tour agency.  Which one is it?”
            Maggie squirmed.  “I seem to have left the tour papers with the ashes documents.  I have to meet the person Aunt Emily hired. He must be waiting here.”
            The faces of both officials were masks of astonishment, a look that Bruno often bore. Maybe Bruno was right; she couldn’t wander the world without a keeper.
            The Major recovered his poise.  He scribbled a memo, passed it across the desk to Señora Morales, and waved her out of the office.  Then he turned his attention to Maggie.
            She writhed under his stare. The room stifled her. She opened her blouse part way and blotted perspiration off her face and neck. She knew her hair needed brushing.  Had her mascara run?  She opened her mouth to ask where the ladies’ room was, when the Major said,
            “Senor Loveless, your husband.  Will he join you?”
            “No,” Maggie said stiffly. “We are separated.”
            The Major drummed the desk with manicured fingernails. The stare became scrutiny. He was sizing her up. “Show me what else you bring.”
            Maggie complied with relief; she was off the hook with the ashes. Shame evaporated. Stroking her sensuous pile, she lifted negligees of yellow, pink and violet, teddies of green, peach, coral and blue, gowns of violet, red lace and white, and bras and panties in black lace. Finally, she brought out the yellow robe.
            “Put the clothes here on my desk.” The Major, eyes wide, wriggled in his chair.  “One garment at a time.”
            Maggie smiled, used to displaying frilly underwear to nervous male shoppers. From force of habit, she encouraged him to stroke the pieces.
            Her customer lost his smile; his left eye twitched.  “Do you plan to sell this finery in Mexico?” He held onto the violet gown with golden lace.
            “No. I treated myself to these things when I quit my job.”
            “Do you plan to work while you are here?”  His gaze lingered as if he pictured her in the gown.
            Maggie kept her tone reasonable. Montoya wanted to trap her.
            “No, I have no business permit. I’ll keep my promise to my aunt, and then go home.”
            “Perhaps I need to know your itinerary.” Montoya’s eyes narrowed; he sat closer and purred his next words. “Do you place the ashes of your aunt somewhere in particular?”
            Did the Major’s job bore him? Maggie mopped her forehead again.
            “I’m to improvise a ritual and scatter them in the ruins of Chichén Itzá.”
            His eyes lighted.  “At the Sacred Cenote, my favorite spot.”
            “Oh, mine too; I’ve wanted to see the Well.” Maggie leaned forward. “But Great-Aunt Emily wants to rest on the grounds of the Nunnery, wherever that is.”
            Montoya frowned.  “Your aunt was a nun?”
            Maggie drew back, alarmed by the intensity of his question.  “No,” she said, “Aunt Emily managed securities, just her own in retirement years.”  She devoutly hoped he wouldn’t run a background check on Emily.
            The major made steeples with his clasped hands, he bit his bottom lip.  “Strange that a broker wants to lie at a Nunnery.  We know little of that building.  I hear stories.  On Good Friday, sacred music comes from the chapel, and no one is there.”  His eyes focused on infinity; his hands caressed the yellow satin robe that rippled on the desktop.
            “Women crave luxury, is it not true?  Rich Gringos woo our women.  They take them away. I have a wife and a pretty daughter. I cannot afford to bring such finery to them.” He drummed his fingers on the knife crease in his right trouser leg.
            His woebegone expression persuaded Maggie to give him some of the baby dolls. She wouldn’t miss them. But what if he considered them a bribe? Then he’d have a solid reason to hand her over to the Federales, or whomever. She shuddered.
            The door opened.  Señora Morales came in.  “As you requested, Señora Loveless, we tried to call the funeral home.  Lines are busy.  Your Bureau of Vital Statistics is closed for the day.  Your newspaper, the Kansas City Star, yes? Your newspaper verified that an Emily O’Toole died in an accident last week.  She was cremated. Margaret Loveless is listed as her next of kin.”  The woman smiled, pleased with herself.
            The Major nodded and she left the room. He patted his pursed lips.  “So. The chemist must analyze the ashes.  We will detain you until tomorrow.”  He rose to leave the room.  “Please wait. I will return.”
            “No,” Maggie said, alarmed, her voice a thin thread. She stood too. “No, I have to meet my guide.”
            “Mañana.” He closed the door.