Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [20]
I give the door a light rap with my knuckle.
When she looks up, and after her mind makes sense of this image from years ago, the transformation is both instantaneous and terrible. A veil of pure anger darkens her skin and I hear a sharp intake of breath that is a strangled, almost guttural sound. I barely have time to move out of the way of the book as it sails by in a flurry of pages past my right ear. The size of the tome and the velocity at which it connects with the wall behind me leaves no doubt that she meant to injure. Failing that, she lets loose with a string of curses in her native tongue—all of which sting far worse than the book would have.
I bear the diatribe with the understanding that I deserve every bit of it and more, but hoping that the anger will peter out. I’m not much into self-flagellation, and if this trip yields nothing more than an opportunity for Esperanza to find some closure, then it will have been wasted.
As I take a step deeper into the room, Esperanza holds up a belaying hand.
“You’ve got to be out of your mind!” she says, forcing herself into English. Something occurs to her then. “Did my brother tell you where to find me?”
She brings her fist down on the desk and I jump back a little.
I’ve got nothing. I can lecture all day in front of college students—often while my mind is far away—and never have trouble articulating. Most times, though, I’m not scared to death.
“It’s good to see you.”
Even though it’s how I feel, surprisingly enough, it’s probably the worst response I could have selected from the menu. Her lips tighten and she leaves the chair, and I am certain that she means to do me the physical harm the book failed to accomplish. But she stays behind the desk, her hands on the brown solidity, and takes a deep breath. I can almost see the anger leaching from her, lowering from its dam-cresting strength, receding to something quieter and slower yet no less powerful.
“What do you want, Jack?”
That’s what I wanted to hear. The pragmatist in me knows that when someone gives you the ball, you can command the situation. The simple fact that she has asked an open-ended question means I now have more leverage than I had when I entered the room. If I’m careful, I can control what happens from here.
The problem is that when the cabbie let me off, what I wanted was to show Esperanza the research, get her opinion, and be on my way. Now I’m not so sure. Things are more complicated when you’re past the planning stage. Once you’re involved in the real deal, it can be difficult to stay on script. I’m reminded of all the reasons why this woman once meant the world to me. A familiar longing is suffering through a surprise rebirth.
“I don’t know,” I answer, and it might be the first honest thing I’ve said in a long time.
“You’re not serious.”
“Oh, but I am.”
“But you’ve got a PhD.”
I think a curse toward Gordon Reese, back in the comparative safety of Dallas. But for him, I would be enjoying my vacation. It’s all I can do to avoid backpedaling like some cartoon character, although the fleeting image of her chasing me around the desk almost brings a smile.
“If you want my help, you’ll have to stand there like a man and let me take a punch. Otherwise, you and your research can walk right out that door.”
I suppose I should be pleased I have her ear at all. In the brief time she gave me to state my case, I could see a flicker of interest.
I’m not frightened. She won’t hit me until I tell her she can. That’s the payoff for her: that I acquiesce to the assault. I suppose that’s where the PhD rears its ugly head; she’ll get more enjoyment having me stand here and take it than she would have received by nailing me with the book.
I don’t suppose I have any real choice. “Fire away,” I say with mock fearlessness.
Right before her small fist connects with my nose, I register two distinct thoughts. The first