LITMIR.BIZ

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I was really reading, not getting every phrase, certainly, but getting the meaning with ease. It occurred to me with wonder that I was reading the way a kid does, maneuvering around the “big words,” but getting the larger sense of things. All right, I thought, be a kid, be seven years old. That was fine, poetically just. I had found my private functioning level, ready for my “agenda.” I was even willing to admit that Catherine’s approach had been right, be a child again.

      I went a little loco, buying earrings (for no one), haggling over the price. Then I stopped at another bar and ordered another beer and sat there exulting. By the third beer I was indeed envisioning myself as a boy, trudging the hills of the country, alone on a winding road, stalwart and unafraid. Starting a fourth, I realized that was a scene I’d read over and over years ago, when Frodo climbs alone to the Seat of Seeing, the lookout tower atop the hill called Amon Hen. But Frodo was no child, by Hobbit chronology. A little guy, to be sure, but out of his “irresponsible tweens,” maybe even age forty. Clearly I’d had enough to drink.

      On the way home I bought a big bouquet for the Ávila family, and that night I called Rebecca, just to tell her the news. It was after 11:00 P.M. my time, after 1:00 A.M. in hers. I knew she hated the portent of a late night ring, but I thought I’d better do it while the impetus was strong, while I was still in the Frodo buzz. I had to find my way in the dark to the house telephone. It sat on a table next to a wall niche where a candle in a red glass burned before the virgin. It was enough light to dial all the numbers on my phone credit card, and I did it before better judgment caught up to me. I was lucky, or Frodo was. Rebecca was awake.

      “It’s you,” she said. “Well, hi.”

      “I hope I didn’t startle you.”

      “Well, yes, you did. Is something wrong? Why are you speaking softly.”

      “Nothing is wrong. I don’t want to wake anyone here in the house.”

      “Where are you?” she asked.

      “Antigua. Where are you?”

      “You should know. You called here.”

      “Where in the house? Tell me exactly.”

      “In the kitchen, getting a snack. In the center of the room, exactly four feet from the sink. In fact, my left foot is on the black linoleum square that’s, let’s see, the eighth one in from the east wall, and my right foot has just landed on the white square which meets the black one kitty-korner.”

      “Okay, yank my chain.”

      “And now I’m walking to the counter and I am sitting down on a stool.”

      “What are you wearing?” A tiresome cliché, but never mind. I wanted to know.

      “You’re cheating,” said Rebecca.

      “I know. But tell me.”

      “My UMass jersey, what else?”

      Good. I could picture her, which was what I wanted to do, for just a minute. I had loved that big old shirt, faded and laundered out of shape. I had loved it on her, that is, as it settled on her comfortable roundness.

      “How’s the Mom?” I asked.

      “The same. But I have something to tell you. Are you ready? Your mother spoke to me today. First time ever.”

      “You’re kidding. Did she know who you are?”

      “I’m sure. She looked me right in the eye and addressed me clearly.”

      “What did she say?”

      “She called me an asshole.”

      I managed to hold down a shout. I had never heard anything approaching a “dirty word” from my mother’s lips. “Oh fudge!” was her standby expletive.

      “I was thrilled,” said Rebecca. “It’s the most attention she’s ever paid to me.

      There was a little awkward silence, then she said: “There’s something else I want to tell you, as long as you’ve called.”

      “I’m listening.”

      “This is cheating, too. Sorry. It’s just that I’m concerned.”

      “What is it? Amy?”

      “No, no. She’s fine. She’s visiting her Dad right now. This is about you.”

      I answered with a grunt, emphasis up, a question.

      “Well, first of all, I heard from the attorney yesterday. Everything is going along on schedule.”

      I had nothing to say to that. She paused and swallowed. “I suppose it’s not unusual to, well, wonder,” she said. “I mean, I just wonder if we’ve gone about things the right way. I think of you down there and I wonder if—. I mean, did I do the wrong thing?”

      Was that a real question? I stopped breathing altogether.

      “Or did I do it the wrong way? I mean, did I send you down there? In effect, that is?”

      I mumbled a negative.

      “There was a story in the paper this week,” she went on, “a personal account by someone who just returned from Guatemala, and he said it was extremely dangerous.”

      “Dangerous how?”

      “Robberies and murders, in the cities at night and even daytimes in the mountains. He said the guerrillas are poor and hungry and they kill people for money. Have you heard that?”

      “No.”

      “You’ll be going up into the mountains, won’t you.”

      “Possibly, yes.”

      “Then I’m really concerned. I would feel so terrible if. Oh nuts. Now I’m embarrassed.”

      Her voice wandered off into a familiar little sniff. She’d always cried easily, not real tears, but what her daughter called “Mom’s melt-down,” rushes of brightness in response to anything that moved her. But this was more than a habitual reaction. I knew her well enough to recognize it—second thoughts by the decision maker. She needed my reassurance. Not just that I was safe; that was a route to the high road. What she really wanted to hear me say was that she, the decision maker, the initiator of our breakup, had done the right thing.

      “Please answer me, Ted. Say something.” An old complaint, my failure to return a quick response. I found my voice, but not my sanity. There was no time to grab that essential by the tail as it flew out of reach. “Becka, no,” I said. I repeated that several times before I went on. “Look, don’t be embarrassed. It’s understandable. It’s just like you to—. Look, first of all, first, well, second, whatever, what’s done is done, right?” Good God, did I mean that? “And it doesn’t make any difference where I am. Really. Does it? The lion can eat you anywhere.”

      “What?”

      “I’m not in any danger, if that’s what you mean.”

      “What lion?”

      “It’s just a metaphor. Skip it. Listen to me. Are you listening? Move in closer.”

      “What metaphor?”

      My mouth was operating on its own. “Never mind that. Move in close to me. Are you close?”

      “Okay, yes, short of 2000 miles.”

      “Good. Now listen. I know two things. Two things. Or rather, I don’t know two things. I don’t know anything. I certainly don’t know why I should be in any danger. That’s two things, right? Two things I don’t know. Do you understand that?”

      “I think so.”

      “Good, because I don’t.”

      She made a noise, a sniffly chuckle.

      “Hug me,” I said.

      “Oh, no.

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