Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [131]
God, though, how they’d loved each other, those two. Kip young and rumpled, strong and restless, brimming with promise. Jessica striding down Amsterdam Avenue in her Dutch clogs and wide-wale cords, holding his hand with both of hers, scads of exquisite heat flowing between them. Brice found such memories painful to this day. Sure, he felt he owned a moral advantage over Kip, given that his politics had proved more sage. He’d been the one to struggle against Vietnam while Kip, like a sheep in wolf’s clothing, prepared to ship out any month. But Kip had Jessica. Theirs was a real romance.
Half ideologue, half defeatist, Brice was no stranger to grand concepts. Some of them he even managed to realize, despite himself. Jessica beside him was his wife; to this day he found that cause for wonderment. Their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, a memorable occasion they eccentrically celebrated on Ariel’s birthday instead of their municipal vow date, was behind them. A raucous dinner was held down in Little Italy at a restaurant where Ariel and her then-new boyfriend, David, had arranged everything. Dom Pérignon, antipasti galore, shrimp brochettes dell’Adriatico, fettuccine with squid-ink sauce, Brice’s favorite zabaglione with Marsala—a feast of celebration with a dozen toasting friends. Ariel had never glowed with more happiness. And back home that night, he and Jessica made love with the passionate abandon of lusty kids. He looked at her now with no less love, but was aware how these few years since that family meeting about Kip had softly weathered her. The brown hair of her youth, filamented with premature silver from as far back as her days at Barnard, had mellowed to a glowing white that reached her straight, strong shoulders. Her forehead had become more finely lined, and her dark eyes were underscored by half moons of shadow that betrayed the sleeplessness that lately afflicted her.
It was good to be going home to visit his mother. Shame it couldn’t be under happier circumstances. Last time he saw her, he’d pledged to return much sooner. Promises most easily made are always the hardest to keep. Ariel was out here, too, somewhere. Didn’t want to get in her way, but what he and Jess wouldn’t give to see her, talk a bit.
He’d tried phoning Bonnie during the layover in Dallas/Fort Worth, but no one answered. Probably should have let her know they decided to come immediately, even though she’d assured him all was well. Peering out the window into the evening, he saw mountains to the west, dotted here and there with small clusters of pinpoint lights, remote communities separated by vast reaches of uninhabited desert.
Far from the portal that framed Brice’s face, thousands of feet below him, Kip Calder waded along in that sere, shadowy ocean. No memories equals no regrets, he happened to be thinking as he strove forward. His credo during the war. What you refuse to remember you cannot rue. Kip’s images and those of Brice were naturally distinct, yet resuscitations of people and moments from their mutual pasts twined, like that budding willow they’d leaned against back in Chimayó.
Against the odds. Kip had made progress in his dubious trek. He was stumbling along at the base of the Oscuras now. The map, the compass, the sun, the moon—he was ever the tenable foot soldier. And in truth, he’d been in worse messes than this, had crashed a couple planes behind enemy lines, wended his way through jungle so thick it seemed the air itself had turned vegetable. Here he’d merely stepped on a watch-clock cactus and had several sharp needles penetrate the sole of his shoe, causing him to limp. His foot was probably bleeding in there but he didn’t sit down to have a look, for fear he’d be discouraged by what he saw. His lower lip was pasty and cracked, and it hurt as he breathed through his mouth. Had been out here a long time. Two days, was it? What did it matter.