Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [84]
Death as something with power, with consequence. I think what I’m feeling is the idea that I’m no longer in my twenties. The great lie of that age group is work and reward—a universe with a munificent scale, where fear can be checked at the cloakroom. It’s a lie because an absence of fear can only mean that we do not dread loss, and that we value nothing so strongly that it would injure us to see it snatched away. It’s a world full of discovery and accomplishment and ego, absent honesty and loyalty. It’s also something I understood, at least in an intangible way, when I took the job at Evanston.
Esperanza’s thumb is making small circles on the back of my hand, and the touch draws me back until I can smell the grass and the air and the fresh mulch laid on the flower beds along the path. Her hand feels good in my own, and there’s a different quality to it that comes from age, from experience. I give it a squeeze and meet her eyes and, despite myself, I have to smile, because it’s exactly what I need. A rebuttal to the presumed superiority of unfettered youth.
Together we sit in silence. As the sun makes its incremental way across the sky, we wait for a call that will tell me if my mother is safe. What goes unsaid is our destination, and for more than the obvious reason. For even if I’m compelled to continue—and that’s something I’m not quite ready to wrestle with—I have no direction, no point that leaps out from a map, which would beckon the Mustang onward. So I’m at something of a dead end, and the only way I can rationalize anything beyond a return to the airport is to cultivate spite.
The thought brings a small smile. At least spite is something I’m good at.
The thing about waiting is that it can segue into a number of other things, depending on factors like the weather, one’s personality, or even biology. In this case, the latter—principally hunger—causes Espy and me to forsake our serene outpost for the manufactured comfort of a nearby restaurant. With several eateries within walking distance of Parliament House, we leave the car parked and try our luck winding our way on foot through the crowds until we find something that looks good.
Less than an hour later, Esperanza is picking at the Trout Amandine, leaving the sides of broccoli and wild rice untouched. A full glass of white wine sits on the table near her plate. It all tells me that she’s in a contemplative mood. If memory serves, she rarely eats when considering a weighty matter, a response that’s in direct opposition to her gastronomic tendencies when she’s angry. I remember her eating a great deal toward the end of our relationship.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Her eyes remain on the trout. She uses a single tine of her fork to flake away a tiny piece of fish, which she does not eat. There’s a long pause before she answers, “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
She looks up from the plate with mild accusation in her eyes, but there’s also warmth there that I would not have seen back in Caracas, or even Rubio. I’m not certain she’d have even been able to manufacture it.
“Always quick with an answer, aren’t you? I’m worried about you because I don’t think you understand why you’re here.”
“We both know why we’re here.”
She shakes her head. “I know why I’m here, and that’s been enough for me up to this point. I’ve carried it for the both of us.”
“All right, why are you here?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“And you’re avoiding it.”
“Semantics,” Espy says, parodying my earlier comment.
“Etymology.” I smirk. “See. I can use big words, too.”
I feel silly, especially seeing as I’m verbally jousting with someone who has crossed the globe for me. Someone who only last month would have ritually spat on my picture.
“Jerk,” she says. “See, I can use appropriate ones.”
That forces a smile and I reach for her hand across the table. I’m not used to this kind of dynamic with someone when,