Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [153]
“He’s become a member of the family,” Sarah was saying.
“Kip’s hard not to love,” Brice half smiled, half grimaced. “I’ve known him my whole life long. Every time I wanted to hate him, I failed. Every time I thought he was gone for good, I was wrong. He’s the most present absence I’ve ever known.”
“He introduced me to Brice, you know.”
“I guess that makes us all family, loose knit,” Sarah said. “You look exhausted. Let’s have some coffee, something to eat.”
Jess took her husband by the arm—a protective gesture, mindful of his perplexity—wanting to hold him up, his burden. Not unlike hers, his thoughts strayed from past to past, faltering into this present crisis when called upon. So many images of his mother. Swabbing tincture of Merthiolate on his skinned knees once when he crashed his bike down by Ashley Pond and blowing on them to make the sting go away. How she loved Christmas with its luminarias and her kitchen smelling of eggnog and fresh gingerbread so delicious it made his head spin. The way she always defended Dad after he, Brice, came of age and began to ruin dinners by excoriating the lab, refusing to eat food bought with “blood money.” What marvelous loyalty in the face of her own grave doubts. Her instinct to protect the underdog, the misunderstood Kip, the singular Bonnie Jean, her wayward son himself. Her voracious love of Ariel, expressed quietly through little gifts and letters, and her continuing quest to teach the girl about God and Heaven and all those churchy things he abhorred but had instinctively left unimpaired. That last time he saw her alive, humming in the kitchen, There’s a someone I’m longing to see, I hope that he turns out to be … and his farewell kiss, holding her delicate head between palms soiled with tierra bendita from Chimayó. The same healing dirt that Kip had scooped from the shrine that day.
“When did you speak with White Sands last?”
“About an hour ago.”
“You mind if I make a redundant call?”
They walked the length of the porch and while Brice telephoned, Sarah made sandwiches and Mary poured out cups of gazpacho. On the stable phone Montoya, too, called around to make arrangements with a couple of other horsemen who’d cover the ranch for him if he found he had to leave for Tularosa basin on the quick.
Having been told that a William Calder was in custody and being brought in for medical attention, and contact had been made with the other three, and that no further information was available at this time—yes, certainly, they understood he was the father of the young lady, and they appreciated his concern and all the fresh information he’d been kind enough to provide—Brice hung up and, in the relative privacy of Sarah’s niche office, finally wept a silent stream of tears for his mother, his daughter, his touched friend. Elbows on his knees, face in his hands, his shoulders heaved. In any life, he knew, there were innumerable ways to fuck up, so many wrong paths to choose from, and while his mother’s death had been inevitable, the broken promise he’d made to her more than three years ago, that he would see her again soon, need not have been. What good were apologies offered too late? Nevertheless, his attempt at giving thanks to her for what she’d done and what she’d tried to do for him seemed a much less ludicrous endeavor than he might have presumed. Prayers—call them that—for Ariel and Kip wouldn’t harm a soul. Soul? Listen to him. So Brice added words of petition on their behalf. In the bathroom off the kitchen he splashed water on his face. Weren’t deathbed conversions reserved for the dying? What was he doing?
Whatever it was, he felt no regret. If only he could say the same about every act he’d ever ventured.
This room had one window that looked out on a mostly empty parking lot. Its cinderblock walls were painted battleship gray and its smooth concrete floors an amiable