The Monarchs

By Randy Coates

Robert and Sharon are retired teachers who make a yearly pilgrimage to the idyllic Mexican town of San Miguel de Allende. They are committed to their annual trip, almost as much as they are committed to each other. Their journey to San Miguel often corresponds with the migration of the monarch butterflies to the Michoacn state.

But this year is different. Robert has been diagnosed with prostate cancer, and the couple must now question their continued travels, as well as their remaining time together. Cancer can be a quick killer, and no one can guarantee Roberts health or how much time he has left. Even so, the magic of Mexico calls, and the couple finds it difficult to resist, despite Roberts declining strength.

Mexico provides a temporary remedy for their bitterness and anger aimed at the unpredictability of lifea bitterness that must pass in order for their love to endure. Just like the monarchs, they too must migrate, sooner or later.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491708576

Randy Coates

Randy Coates graduated from the University of Waterloo with a bachelor of arts degree and earned his teacher’s certificate from the University of Western Ontario. He is currently a teacher in the Toronto District School Board. He is also the author of More Precious than Rubies, a children’s fantasy book.

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Copyright © 2013 RANDY COATES.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover artwork by Jamie-Lee Warner

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-0859-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0858-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0857-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916861

iUniverse rev. date: 9/24/2013

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue: Years Hence

About the Author

Prologue

L ong before they had ever heard of San Miguel de Allende, the colonial town northwest of Mexico City, Sharon and Robert had developed an interest in the migration of the monarch butterflies.

They had both taught in Toronto secondary schools and now that they had recently retired, the stressful nature of their jobs was no longer a hindrance to what they enjoyed. In this, their first year of retirement, they found themselves appreciating their back garden more, marvelling at the wonders of the natural world more. They supposed it had something to do with their sudden relaxation, not being confined to a day of schedules.

They took more notice of the summer after their June departure from their respective schools, glad that they could leave in the same year, excited about future plans they had been orchestrating the last few years. So they took time to catch their breath, to lounge in the sun on their deck, to quietly discuss travel arrangements.

Summer was blissful. They saw the occasional monarchs, fluttering in an orange blur, but they always seemed transient, seeking out the milkweeds that Sharon and Robert’s garden did not provide.

Sharon and Robert noticed things like this the way they never had before. Their observations were not polluted any more by the imminence of teaching classes in September. They were aware of being settled in retirement, and therefore more attuned to the glories of nature and to the phenomena that evolved through nature. One of these phenomena was the migration.

They spoke about the miraculous journey of the butterflies, swept up on wind currents to a land they had never seen, sensing in the minuteness of their capillaries, the destination that waited for them. They left Canada as the fall weather dictated to them their need to find warmth in the south.

As did Sharon and Robert. Sharon and Robert were the monarchs. At least this is how they joked with one another.

The butterflies made their annual pilgrimage to Mexico’s Michoacan state, a vast district that included San Miguel, a place of which Sharon was still learning. The insects would collect in the oyamel trees, tall, spindly structures, their branches high up. They would cling together on the branches, sewing ther tapestries of tangerine. Together, the butterflies would pack for warmth and when the frosty air rose and the sun began to blossom the forest of oyamels with heat, the monarchs would fly into the air, dotting the sky with their delicate bodies.

Sharon and Robert had never seen the spectacle except in documentaries. They were amazed by it. One day, maybe even this year, they would see the wonder for themselves.

The best time to see the collection of butterflies, as they coated the oyamel trees with a rich, orange splendour, was January and February. Before they had retired, Sharon and Robert could not travel during these months due to their teaching commitments. By March, when the weather was getting slightly warmer in Canada, some butterflies were already disappearing from Mexico, heading northward.

Sometimes, Sharon dreamt of the butterflies. She’d imagine them on the screen outside their bedroom window, plastered there, clamped on like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She’d go to reach for them and they’d break apart and float away. Then she’d look over at Robert’s side of the bed and he’d no longer be there.

Then, she’d wake up.

Chapter 1

R obert turned to Sharon. Hey, he said.

Sharon was in a reverie as she watched some nothing show on television; something about a date gone bad and the couple was trading insults.

Hmmm?

Let’s do the monarch thing.

She didn’t get it.

What do monarchs do at this time of year?

You want to go to San Miguel?

Why not? It’s my farewell tour to the world.

Don’t talk like that.

Come on Sharon, if I can’t talk to you…

She switched off the television.

Five years before, he had read about San Miguel, an art colony and retirement haven for well-off North Americans. Other than Acapulco, neither of them had travelled to any other city in Mexico.

Acapulco had been Robert’s choice at one time. He used to be the camp director at a resort in northern Ontario and there would always be a leeway of a week between the end of his summer job and the beginning of his teaching job in September. As a reward at the end of his summer, he would invite some of his favourite counsellors to travel with him to Acapulco. Sharon accompanied them reluctantly at first, wary of wayward teenagers stuck on beach mentality and copious amounts of Margaritas.

But she grew to like it. The cost was cheap, the sun therapeutic, the kids just as intent in getting away from Robert and her as she was from them. She and Robert had been together 25 years by the time they first travelled to Mexico. They used much of their travel time just absorbing life around them. They weren’t big on planning around agendas or being at a particular tourist attraction at a particular time. They spent hours in restaurants, sometimes ordering as much as three bottles of wine. They read in the sun. They slept in until gloriously late hours. They walked unfamiliar streets.

Acapulco had been good for their laid-back habits. It was a city big on spectacle and small on highlighting its history and so they didn’t feel obligated to check out museums or cathedrals. They could avoid the bronzed bodies on the beach and still luxuriate in their own uninterrupted pursuits.

But they were also adventurous. Mexico was not just Acapulco. There was a lot more.

One day in Acapulco a few years back, Robert was reading a Fodor’s Guide on Mexico when he came across the section on San Miguel de Allende, situated in the central mountains of Mexico.

I’ve heard about this place, he mused.

He and Sharon were lounging by the pool at the El Mariachi Hotel. Sharon had almost dozed off and when she heard his words, she instinctively brushed away flies from her cuba libre. She shielded her eyes as she glanced over. What?

This San Miguel de Allende. He did not look over.

Where is it?

Mexico.

She sipped at her drink, now warm and watery. But there was something she liked about drinking warm cuba libres in plastic glasses. Especially in tropical locales. Well I kinda got that…It’s big for retirees, no?

Robert nodded.

Are you trying to find a mistress, Robert? Acapulco’s been good to us, you know.

Oh I love Acapulco. That doesn’t mean I can’t play the field.

She watched a young couple, maybe in their mid-twenties, frolic and giggle as they tried to pull each other into the pool. The pool was so small that the woman’s tits, so dangerously close to falling out of her bathing suit, would have taken up all the space.

Near the bar came the sound of laughter. Everywhere they went, no matter what country they travelled to, there was the ubiquitous fat, jovial woman who wheezed out laughter as if she had ownership of everyone’s air space.

Does that turn you on? Sharon was watching the woman in the pool.

Robert looked up rapidly, then cast her a look of horror. Oh pleeeassse…And even if it did, I’m not foolish enough to think I’m even in the running. He placed the book on his lap. My tired old dugs can match hers, anyway.

You’re still pretty hot to me.

Yeah, right.

She swished around the sludge in her glass. So tell me about San Miguel.

Well here’s a picture of it. Robert let the guidebook fall open at a well-worn page, so well-worn in fact that the spine’s glue could barely hold it intact any more. Little crumbs of hardened, clear glue actually somersaulted down the page, missing Sharon’s glass by an inch.

Something tells me you know a lot more about San Miguel than you’ve let on. Any other secrets you going to reveal?

Yeah, I’m really a woman trapped…

Save it.

Sharon took the book gingerly.

The picture showed a cobblestoned street baking in radiant sunlight. To one side stood the statue of what appeared to be a monk; to the other stood a woman, smiling for the camera, wearing a white dress embroidered with bright red frills. She was holding up a necklace that dangled sensuously between her fingers. In the background loomed the Sierra Madre mountains, their imposing shapes scarred by lines of roadway and dotted by houses.

Looks nice. Sharon handed the book back. How does it compare to here?

It’s not on the water, for one thing.

I can live with that.

Doesn’t get the temperatures Acapulco does. Most of the year, the temperatures waver around the 70s and low 80s.

I would pin that on the mountains.

Gets chillier during winter. You need long pants and maybe even a jacket for the winter nights.

Sharon narrowed her look. But no snow. And no below 0 temperatures. Tell me that.

You think I’d even mention the place if those were possibilities?

Forgive me. Sharon downed the rest of her lukewarm drink. The lime rind sat blandly at the bottom of her glass, almost reproachful.

On cue, a waiter in an immaculate starched-white shirt materialized by her side. Una mas, senorita? He was asking her if she wanted another drink. His flirtation was obvious but, to Sharon, not worth dismissing.

She batted her eyelashes. Why of course. And the same for my husband, thanks, she responded in Spanish.

The waiter understood and laughed. Claro que si, senorita, claro que si.

Robert was not amused. You just love it that I never tried to pick up the language, don’t you?

Hey, we have a partnership. You do the research on the interesting places, I’ll learn the languages.

The sun was always good for them. It took their minds off the real problems. They succumbed to the pleasures of worldly experiences when they travelled and made promises not to drag in the monotony of their Canadian routines, nor the medical concerns that had beset them in the past year. They could see in each other’s face how travel softened the grooves; how it added animation to the waxiness of their features; how it gave their eyes a look of restfulness instead of watchfulness; the act of always being aware something bad was about to happen.

What would you do without my command of the language?

Hey, don’t underestimate me. You know I know some expressions.

The waiter returned, his shirt sparkling in the tropical air, the cuba libres looking refreshing but clinking oppressively against the continued onslaught of the sun. Dos cuba libres, senorita, he said cheerily but his curiosity was on Robert’s guidebook, laid open at the picture Robert had shown Sharon.

Muchas gracias, senor.

De nada.

The waiter lingered over Robert’s book as if he were about to make a comment, but then winked, and made off.

"I kind of got the point that you were ordering for me, deary, but excuse me for misunderstanding the meaning of senorita. I always thought that to be a senorita, one needed to be quite young and unmarried. In your case, I always thought you were a…well a…senora."

Sharon took a sip around already-diminishing ice cubes. You see. You have so much to learn.

The couple who had invaded the pool were now content with sunning themselves beside it. She had undone the bikini top and was lying stomach-down on the interlocking rock slabs next to the pool. How she didn’t scorch her nipples off was beyond Robert. Her significant other was rubbing her between the shoulder blades.

I guess they think everything’s okay because we are the only people around and Robert poses no threat to stealing his girl away, thought Sharon. She communicated her look of amusement to Robert.

The significant other revealed a huge grin to Robert, chuckled, and whispered into the buxom one’s ear. She, in turn, raised her head lazily to squint at Robert, then chuckled too.

Hey, I think they’re talking ‘bout’cha.

Well duhhh…

Robert took a big gulp; let the carbon burn his throat deliciously. Think we should tell ‘em?

Nah…Let ‘em enjoy that kind of fun for two years. Then, they’ll see.

But then again, look at us.

You know, we should have nicknames for each other, Robert.

Oh Christ…

No, seriously. I don’t mean trite ones like sweetie or pumpkin…Ones with substance.

"How about Mortal and Almost-Gone?"

Okay, I see we need a subject change…Anyway, about San Miguel…?

There’s a lot to do in terms of local theatre, music, and art studios. Restaurants are first-rate and international. But…

But…?

People will stay out of your face if you’re not into the social thing…According to the guidebook, anyway…There’s a lot of history and resplendent celebrations…

"Resplendent? You took that word right out of the guidebook, didn’t you?"

Okay, it’s in my head, I admit that.

Sharon took the guidebook from him and read a little. So that’s a statue of the founder in the picture.

Fray Juan de San Miguel. A missionary.

Sharon raised her eyes to study him suspiciously. Don’t brag.

We have a partnership. I learn the history, you learn the language.

She lowered her gaze again. One hundred and fifty thousand people, hmmm? Not exactly a small town.

That includes the people on the outskirts. You know, the rancheros and stuff. Plus, tourists dominate at times.

She closed the book as well as her eyes.

Are you judging my opinion? he asked.

No way. I never do, you know that. I just have to take things one step at a time. These places always appeal more to me when we are in the drudgery of Canada. Not when we’re sun-drenched in Acapulco.

I know. I get it.

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. What are your feelings?

He smirked. It sounds like a good place to die.

Chapter 2

T hey expected total disorientation on their first trip to San Miguel despite their familiarity with Mexico’s customs and the meagre information offered them by their travel agent who had travelled there once and, at that, four years ago.

All of their preparations in Canada were thorough. They had known what to pack. They had already booked their hotel. Robert had read extensively about what they would find there.

They had no difficulty in planning their holiday around October and November now that they were retired. They wanted to correspond their journey not only with the annual migration of the monarchs from Canada but also with the Day of the Dead ceremonies.

They were looking forward to the new experience.

However, their excitement did not eliminate the anxiety that plagued them over a number of factors, one of which was their first excursion into one of the biggest crime capitals in the world, Mexico City. And then there was the ensuing confusion of how to get to San Miguel from Mexico City.

Their travel agent had assured them of the easy access they had to the multitude of buses which escaped from Mexico City to various parts of the country. And buying tickets was very straightforward, the agent spewed, especially since Sharon knew Spanish quite well.

I don’t want to burst my own balloon, Sharon told her husband later, but I really don’t know as much as you guys give me credit for. And you notice I only practise when I’m there.

The agent also stressed the importance of getting out of the Mexico City airport as quickly as they could, seeing that it was a famous location for