It's Stories - Sofia

In Texas we take our racism seriously. Since this story is set almost a half century ago, you might expect that things are much better now. I am not sure that is the case, as polarization has fanned some embers into open flame. Now, as then, racism is practiced widely without limitation of race, creed, or culture. To pretend that it doesn't exist is to encourage its continuance. Today in our enlightened era, we overlay our prejudices with a coating of political correctness. Onward to hypocrisy.

I fear the story is flawed seriously by two things. Some of the dialogue is in Spanish, but I, alas, am not bilingual. Spanish dialogue is indicated by angle brackets <>. The second problem is that of a WASP male creating the thoughts of a Latina. I can only plead ignorance and beg your forgiveness. I wanted to tell the story, so here is the first part, warts and all.

Anachronism note: For the film buffs—I know

The Graduate

was not released until December 1967(I was there), but it fit the story so please cut me some slack. rrk

*****

Huaco, Texas 1967

Kit heard the phone ring, but he was deep in the rhyme scheme of an Elizabethan sonnet. He ignored it partially because he was busy and partially because no one called for him here. He was in the office of his parent's house to avoid the distractions that his own student digs kept throwing at him.

The ringing stopped and he heard Carter talking in his smooth, give-nothing-away tone. Just before he dived back into ABBA, or ABAB or whatever, he heard Carter say, "OK, I'll ask him." He put the pen down with a certain amount of anxiety as typically the only people to get Carter to do anything were Kit's parents and Kit had not heard from either of them in months.

Carter stepped into the doorway, a spare blond man wearing OP shorts and a tee shirt with a tennis racket and ball imprinted. Until two years ago, any time Kit saw Carter, he wore a dark suit, white shirt, and solid color tie. He was the CFO for Kit's dad, who was a multi-millionaire architect and developer. When Don Morgan, Kit's dad, suddenly closed his offices and left town, Carter moved into the guest house above the garage and morphed from corporate hatchet man to man of all parts for the Morgan family. He paid the bills for the estate and Kit, and kept things up in reasonable fashion. He said he was on sabbatical until Don returned. The suit was traded in on tennis wear. and Carter traveled the state on the amateur senior tennis circuit.

"A lady says she wants to talk to you. She says her name is Theda Pullin from the placement center at school. Is she the one helping you get these strange jobs?"

"I'll get it in here. Maybe she has another job for me. I could use the money."

Before Kit picked up the phone, he walked over to close the office door. Carter never commented on Kit's actions, but Kit felt sure that Carter was reporting to his father, wherever he was.

He picked up the phone and punched the blinking button. "Hi. I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me." Kit heard a deep, warm chuckle on the other end of the line.

"Not much chance of that. What are you doing?"

"I am trying to finish an Elizabethan sonnet for Dr. Miller's English Lit class. If I turn in an acceptable sonnet by Monday, I can take the grade I presently have rather than taking the final on Wednesday."

"So you are satisfied with the grade you have?"

"I'm a jock, that is, I was a jock. I'm always satisfied with an A. But if you wanted me to drive over to your side of the bay this evening, I could put this sonnet business off."

Kit heard the wistfulness in her voice as she said, "We agreed that was unworkable. It would just get me fired and you in trouble with everyone."

"Not everyone. I know a number of guys who, if they knew, would turn green with envy."

"Hush, no more of that. Listen to me when I tell you that part must be over. Regardless, this call is business, not personal. I might have a job for you."

"Great, when?"

"First, I need to ask you some questions. How good are you at shooting golfs? And are you in any kind of practice? What are you doing a week from Thursday including the weekend? And last, do you have a tuxedo?"

"The answers are; pretty good, pretty much, nothing, and yes."

"Smart aleck, expand on your answers."

"Well, that's a strange set of questions. In order—I'm pretty good for an amateur and by the way, you should say golf singular, shooting golfs makes it sound like a hunting sport. Second, I've been hitting a few balls, but have only played 4 rounds since the summer session of classes started, but I'm OK. I just can't walk the course much because of my ankle. Third, I'm supposed to take Dr Miller's test on Wednesday if I don't finish the sonnet and then I am free until the fall semester. And last, I have a tuxedo."

"Is the tuxedo presentable? You haven't outgrown it?"

"Tailored for me in Dallas on my mother's orders about 10 months ago. I haven't' changed sizes since then. What is this about?"

"It's about $500 for Thursday through Sunday. All expenses paid. Good food and drink, Golf at the Galveston Country Club on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and staying at the Hotel Galvez on the seawall. Interested?"

"Sounds like a really nice vacation. Do I have to kill someone or just hide the body?"

"I have a friend..."

"Stop! I've heard this story; it's always a blind date and pure misery. And you're not just talking about one night, you're talking four days—plus travel."

"Kit! Listen! $500 and I promise that Sofia won't make you miserable."

"Sofia?"

"She is the friend I was telling you about. Sofia Arredondo. She has more money than a snake has wiggles. She just went through a divorce, a very unhappy divorce, and her family foundation has a big fundraiser at Galveston Country Club every year. All the family is expected to play and she needs a partner. You would be the partner and escort to the functions at night."

"What happened to her usual partner?"

"That would be the ex-husband. He will be there playing as well with his big blond bimbo. Sofia cannot show up looking like a castoff. She needs a presentable escort."

"I should have known," he moaned.

"Kit, a woman scorned must do whatever necessary to hold on to her pride. She needs someone as different from Primo as the bimbo is different from her."

"Wait a minute...Primo, Primo Arredondo the jockey. He is the ex-husband? He rode I don't know how many Triple Crown horses and won on some of them."

"That's him, but he is too old for jockeying any more. He is a trainer and is working to bringing pari-mutuel racing to Texas. Sofia says he is insanely jealous and a crazy man about winning. He and she have won the golf tournament the last three years."

"Jockeys are real athletes. He must be pretty good."

"Sofia says he cheats—on the golf course, on the race track, and on her."

"What does Sofia look like?"

"She is about a foot shorter than I am. She is all black eyes, dark hair, and curves all over. She is a year younger than I am."

"Are you pimping me out?" Kit asked only half joking.

"No, but she needs you to pretend to be more than just a golf partner. She needs you to drive her to Galveston in your hot seat convertible and pretend to be her boy toy. It's to make Primo see what he has lost and show everyone she is fine."

"Theda, You want me to go to Galveston with a middle-aged chunky mini-Latina and pretend to be a couple with her to make her insane ex-husband jealous and boost her morale—all for $500?"

"How about $1000 and she gets a suite at the Hotel Galvez? All the seafood you can eat and the beach is just across the road."

"Sold. Where do I pick her up?"

"She lives in San Antonio on Alamo Heights just north of the country club."

"Sounds like she is really into golf."

"She played on the professional women's tour for a couple of years before she married Primo. She said she was the best Hispanic midget woman golfer in the world."

"Have you considered how unmatched we will be, a short Hispanic woman and a 6'5" blonde gringo with a bad ankle."

"You'll do fine. You will be in carts and I promise you will like her. She is a great person and didn't deserve the abuse and embarrassment that Primo brought her. I have to tell you that the $1000 was her original offer."

"Theda, do you know the story about the rich old man who asked the young girl if she would have sex with him for a million dollars. She said she would. He asked if she would do it for two dollars. She was offended and asked just what he thought she was.

He said they had established what she was and now they were haggling over the price. I guess we know what I am."

Kit hung up the phone to the shrieks of laughter from the director of the placement office.

++++++++++++++++++++++

8:00 AM Monday morning found Kit waiting outside the second floor office of Dr. M.E. Miller. The posted office hours were 8:00-8:45 M-W-F, but the office was locked. Kit read through his sonnet again as he wondered why someone would post office hours and then not be available. The poem looked OK to him-the rhyme scheme of abab cdcd, efef, gg, was correct. Most of the lines were ten syllables of five iambic feet; Kit really hoped Dr. Miller would OK the sonnet so that he could avoid the test.

Kit heard the clattering of high heels coming up the stairs and before he could see anyone, he heard, "I'll tell you again, Mary, if that son-of-a-bitch is going to act like that and embarrass you in front of the whole faculty, you should file on his cheating ass...uh, oh...who are you, young man, and why are you eavesdropping on a private conversation?" The speaker was Dr. Francine Gneiss, head of the Literature Department at Taylor University and she was speaking to Kit while staring daggers at him.

Dr. Miller laid a hand on the shoulder of Dr. Gneiss and said, "Francine, this is Mr. Morgan, one of my Lit. 203 students and I suspect he is here to turn in a sonnet that might excuse him from the exam on Wednesday." Dr. Miller was a shapely middle thirty's blonde whose Barbie doll looks had fooled many testosterone poisoned young men into underestimating her razor sharp mind. "I am late for my office hours and he has evidently been waiting for me. Is that the sonnet in your hand, Mr. Morgan?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Kit had learned that with most women, the less he said, the less trouble he got into.

"Let me see it. If it is not acceptable, I will know quickly and you can go home to begin studying for the exam."

"Are you going to do it here in the hall?" Kit asked.

"Yes, Mary," said Dr. Gneiss. "You can't conduct office hours in the hall. We have provided you a perfectly good office right behind that door."

"It will only take a minute; it's only 14 lines."

Kit handed Dr. Miller the carefully typed poem. She slid the strap holding her briefcase off her shoulder and took the paper. Kit and Dr. Gneiss stood still as Dr. Miller's blue eyes rapidly scanned Kit's work. Her brow furrowed in a sudden harder focus and she glanced up at Kit, then back at the paper. She handed the paper to Dr. Gneiss. Kit could read nothing in her expression as they waited on the head of the department.

Dr. Gneiss pursed her lips, "Well, it is much better than I would have expected from a tall beach boy, Mary, but it is your call. I will talk to you more later."

Dr. Miller took back Kit's sonnet and as she unlocked the door, she said, "Yes, Francine, we can talk later, but right now I think I better have a short session with Mr. Morgan."

Dr. Gneiss nodded and stomped on down the hall to open the door to her own corner office. Kit reached to pick up Dr. Miller's briefcase as she swung the door open. She looked back to see him holding the heavy leather bag. "Thank you, I'll take that. Come on in the office and sit down while I get comfortable."

Kit sat in the antique oak captain's chair in front of Dr. Miller's desk as she placed some files from her briefcase in a set of beautiful oak filing cabinets. She shrugged off her suit jacket revealing a soft white silk sleeveless blouse. Kit had to remind himself to drag his eyes up from an outstanding pair of tata's to look the older woman in the eyes. He was drawn to a pair of blue irises the color of a clear Texas sky that seemed to fill her whole eye socket.

"First of all, your sonnet is more than acceptable. I would suggest that you submit it to the school's literary magazine. They could well publish it."

"I don't think so. I enjoyed writing it, but it doesn't seem like something that I would want to share with everyone."

"You enjoyed writing it?"

"Yes, it was like a puzzle to fit the parts together and make it scan. You said it was a form of entertainment among the educated to write sonnets for amusement at that time. No

Laugh In or Mr. Ed,

no Beatles or Elvis, no John Wayne, no Astrodome."

"Who is the mysterious beauty in your sonnet? Has one of the coeds stolen your heart?"

"Not a coed. It is maybe an ideal, just an idea of what I think a woman should be."

"And maybe you have learned enough discretion to know to never talk about one woman to another woman?"

Kit did not answer. The silence held for a moment; Dr. Miller smiled and shook her head. "You know that your mother and I were friends once."

"Yes, I know. That is why I took your class this summer."

"We were best friends. Suite mates in the dorm at TWU in Denton. Teammates on the field hockey team. Confidants. She was the maid of honor at my wedding. She was so beautiful that she tried to hide her looks so the bride would not look dowdy."

"I doubt that. She is a beautiful woman, but nothing could make you look dowdy."

The simple sincerity of Kit's averral brought tears to the eyes of a woman who had had too few compliments of late. The beautiful blue eyes looked up at the features so reminiscent of his mother. Even the tousled blonde hair was familiar.

"I miss her." Dr. Miller said simply.

"I do too."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. I was hoping that sometime this summer I would get a chance to ask you that same question."

"At the faculty women's luncheon on Tuesday last, Theda Pullin said you were interested in doing odd jobs to pick up some spending money."

"Yes. I worked for Mrs. Pullin about a month ago."

"She said so. She seemed happy with your services. What did you do?"

"I moved her." Kit smiled wistfully. "It only required a strong back and a weak mind. Are you no longer friends with my mother?"

"I became angry with her and cut off our friendship because she didn't like my fiancé, now my husband."

"She always spoke warmly of you. I don't think she was angry with you."

"No, she was the best of us all."

"Yes. I love her very much."

The silence grew as they considered the situation. She said," Well, Christopher, I guess that finishes this meeting up. You will receive your A and perhaps I will find some small jobs for you this summer. Can I contact you through the placement office?"

"Yes, but I prefer Kit to Christopher. My mother only called me Christopher when I was in trouble. I am heading out tomorrow to Galveston for a golf tournament, but I will be back next week."

"I see—Kit, as in Kit Marlowe. My mother called me Mary Elizabeth for the same reason. Very well. Enjoy your trip, but, Christopher, you should never try to play word games with a literature professor."

Blushing and abashed, Kit quickly left Dr. Mary Elizabeth Miller's office.

Kit drove directly from the office to Ridgeway Country Club. A quick tune-up lesson from the pro couldn't hurt. Royce Rinehart had taught Kit the fundamentals of the game ten years before and Kit trusted him to see any new flaws in his game. After parking by the pro shop, Kit hoisted his bag from the passenger seat. A golf cart with a young Latino dressed in jeans and tee shirt pulled beside him.

"Hey, Kit. I'll get that. Do you need a cart today?"

"No, Ernesto, I'm just getting a lesson from Mr. Rinehart today. What are you doing working the bag drop? I thought you were spending the summer with James learning all the greens keeping stuff."

Ernesto had played on the Taylor U. golf team and since graduation had worked as an assistant pro at Ridgeway. Royce, as head pro, thought golf pros ought to be able to handle any part of the business of running a golf course. Thus Ernesto spent more time learning maintenance, and agronomy than hitting balls.

"That lazy ass Tucker didn't show up this morning so I am filling in here until Royce gets someone. I wish they would fire his trailer trash ass. Get in and I'll take you by the pro shop and then drop your bag at the range."

"That's fine. Maybe something happened with Tucker. He could be sick or something."

"Yeah—or something. Or something like drunk and hung-over or something like shacked up with some road lizard with fewer teeth than Trevino has birdies. You know how those people are."

"Let me tell Mr. Rinehart that I am here and I'll ride down to the range with you." Kit quickly trotted to the pro shop and waved at the pro who was frowning at a clip board. He looked up and smiled at Kit.

"Go on down to the range and get loose. I put a big bucket of balls down there earlier. You may need lots of work. I'll finish here and be there shortly.

"Yes, sir." Kit replied.

When Kit and Ernesto reached the range, a large broad shouldered man was already there teeing up Kit's practice balls and smashing them with a driver. Ernesto pulled up behind him and stopped. When the man turned around, they saw it was Devin Miller, Dr. Miller's husband, a pilot for American Airlines who flew out of Love Field.

"Oh, are these your balls I am hitting. Ha, ha, get the joke? I thought someone had left them."

"Mr. Rinehart left them here for me; we have a lesson scheduled.'

"You are Don Morgan's boy aren't you? The one who fucked up his ankle?"

"That's me." Kit said.

"Well you take these balls and I'll get this boy to get me another bucket. Just a small bucket, chico."

"Si, senor." Ernesto answered. In a lower voice to Kit he said, "I'll bring you some more balls for the ones he hit."

"Andale, Andale, muchacho." Shouted the older man as Ernesto drove off.

"Ernesto has a degree from Taylor in business management." Kit told Devin Miller.

"Well, he ought to speak better English then, shouldn't he?" the older man said.

Kit remembered his basketball coach's words of wisdom. "Some people—you can't talk to them and it's illegal to kill them." He turned his back on the asshole and began hitting wedges to warm up.

Royce Rinehart motored up in his golf cart shortly. After he asked Kit if he was warm, he sat in the cart without talking as Kit went through their customary routine. Five full wedges, five full seven-irons, and five full three-irons.

Devin called out, "Hey, Royce, watch this and see what you think."

"I'm giving Kit a lesson right now, Devin. I'll be with you when we are finished."

"What's so special about a gawky kid that broke his own leg running bases? I'm a member and you're supposed to be helping members. It's your job."

Kit whirled toward the older man who was smirking as he leaned on his club. Kit stopped what he was about to say when Mr. Rinehart held up his hand.

"Devin, Kit is an associate member through his family just as you are through your wife's membership. He is paying for a lesson and you are stealing time he has paid for. If you would like to schedule a lesson, my rates are $50 for a half hour. Right now we are on Kit's time so be quiet."

"We'll see about your attitude, Rinehart. Just wait until I talk to a few people." Miller picked up his clubs and stalked angrily away.