“What was the fee?” Abatangelo asked.
Shel hiked herself onto the stool next to his. “Enough, apparently,” she said.
“Doubt it made you any friends.”
“Pete’s my friend here,” she replied, nodding toward the bartender. As an afterthought, she added: “We used to work together. Long ago.”
She said this without sentiment. Down the bar, Pete the bartender set about mixing a double Stoli Bloody Mary. A dab of Worcestershire, several shakes of celery salt.
“I fear,” Abatangelo said, “Pete finds me unworthy.”
“Pete thinks everybody’s unworthy,” Shel responded. “It’s his curse.”
Pete concluded his preparations and carried Shel’s drink toward her like a chalice. He spun a napkin down and pinned it with the glass stem. Abatangelo nudged a five from his change but Pete lifted a nay-saying hand.
“Thank you,” Shel said to both of them.
Pete smiled toward her, eyed Abatangelo, then retreated. Shortly he resumed his position at the ice bin, far enough away to imply discretion, close enough to overhear if voices were raised.
Shel regarded with relief the cocktail before her- fuss of celery, lime squeeze, peppery ice. The first taste went down with a delicious greedy snap and she promptly considered draining the glass, ordering a second. Instead, she took the celery stalk in her fingers and used it to stir.
A long silence followed. Sensing Abatangelo about to break it, she launched in first, saying, “Who are you?” Listening to her own voice, she decided the words did not sound coy or malicious. She meant to sound curious, as though they were strangers. A bit of make-believe, to lighten things up, give them a little emotional leeway. “If you don’t mind my asking,” she added.
Abatangelo stared back at her with a look of bafflement. He picked up his glass and rolled the rum around, sniffing it, sipping.
“I am,” he said at length, “a photographer. I work in the city.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“I came out to see an old friend. Lost touch over the years. I’m hoping she’ll turn up soon.”
He smiled gamely. She felt herself grow sad. She wanted a kiss from him.
“How did you lose touch,” she said, “you and this old friend of yours?”
“I’ve been away,” he said. “The desert.”
“Studying with a guru?”
This provoked a helpless cackle. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Me and all my hermit pals. We were studying with our guru. We were paving the road to enlightenment.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Well, it got a little dull.”
“Maybe your guru was messing with your head.”
“That’s all part of the process.”
“Then who needs it?”
“Me,” Abatangelo said. “Wicked me. The wise ones decided: Send the sorry motherfucker to the desert, that’ll straighten him out. Let him learn the ancient secrets of boredom and humiliation.”
“Listen…”
“That’s enlightenment in the desert, my dear. That and an inkling, that, back in civilization, the people you used to know quite easily abide your absence. They, how does one put it, move on.”
He looked at her inquiringly. She felt her throat tighten.
She said, “But hey, now you’re back.”
“Waiting,” he said.
She reached for her drink. “What did you do before this bit in the desert?”
“I was in import/export. Exotic greenery. My turn now: Who are you?”
She felt stung by his tone and yet oddly relieved. He was getting pissed. “I used to work in property management,” she said. “Beachfront homes. But the partnership dissolved.”
“How sad,” Abatangelo said. “I mean, I suppose. Was it?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It was sad.”
He stared at a spot two inches inside her skull. “Tough luck,” he said. “Hard to find good partners. And now?”
Shel puffed her cheeks and winced. “I run a day-care center,” she said, “for hard-to-discipline children.”
She offered him a knowing smile. Once upon a time, she thought, we did this in Vegas. We were young and crazy with hope and brand-new to each other. Every word crackled. It seemed a thousand years ago.
He turned toward her and said, “Let’s drop this, all right?”
“I’m sorry, it was stupid, I just thought- ”
“Forget it.”
They lifted their glasses in unison and drank. Shel tried hard not to think of Frank, or Felix, or the twins.
After a moment, staring straight ahead, he told her, “I got your letter.”
Shel let loose with a long and windy sigh. “Then there’s not much point talking about it,” she said, “is there?”
He studied her. “You look fabulous, incidentally.”
She felt her lips break into a weak and childlike smile. She wanted, again, a kiss from him. “It’s the light,” she said. “It’s kind.”
“No. I’m aware of the light. I know what light can and can’t do. That’s one thing I do know.”
The corners of his mouth softened into a forgiving smile. She found herself gratified to see he was still a handsome man. Overall, despite the desert, he looked trim and sturdy and free of serious defect. The hair was shorter, with bristlings of gray. He looked stronger, bigger in the neck and chest and arms. She longed to hear his stories about the Safford weight room. He could be such an achingly funny man.
“Do you believe in echo?” he asked her suddenly.
The question roused her. “Come again?”
“Echo,” he said.
She stared.
“ ‘Who can believe in echo, when day and night he lives in urban confusion?’ It’s a question posed by Kierkegaard.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“Danish philosopher.” After a moment, he added: “You get a lot of time to read in the desert.”
“No fooling.”
“This particular line, the one about echo, it stuck with me,” he said. He offered a mischievous smile. “The point, as I understood it, is that it’s hard, believing in echo, given how confused life is. Modern life.”
“Echo,” Shel said.
“In context, it has Christian implications. God’s grace bestowed on virtuous men. The good guys.”
“Oh man,” she murmured, shaking her head.
“Bear with me. Now I, like you, have serious doubts about the grace of God. Let alone the good guys.”
“Well, hey.”
“So I read this particular line a bit differently. Echo is simply a voice like my voice, in a sense. Someone like me, out in the world somewhere. She exists. Not a wish. A fact. She’s there. And her existence, it creates a sort of echo.”
He gazed at her, his face full of: Pick it up. She expected him to grab her wrists, shake them. And, in no small way, she wanted him to.
“Sounds a little to me like long-lost love,” she said.
“Not lost,” he said. “Come on. A soul like your soul. Calling out somewhere. What do you think? You believe in that or not?”
She tried to work up the nerve to respond. Yes, she’d tell him. She believed, somewhat, sure. So? Sensing his impatience, she resorted merely to, “I’m having fun.”
“That’s good.”
“No. It’s not. Not at all.”
He started leaning toward her. His kiss found the corner of her mouth, gentle and dry. He touched her arm and she found herself closing her eyes. Their lips parted with the next kiss and she felt a dizziness with their mingling saliva. She clutched the bar for balance and pulled away gently.
“People know me here.”
“No they don’t. Just Pete, remember? And he’s cursed.”
“Don’t be flip.” She clutched the lapels of his jacket and shook him with an intensity half-comic, half-heartbroken. “Why don’t you hate me?” she said. “I walked. When it was easy, you were helpless, in the middle of nowhere, what could you do to stop me? It was chickenshit. So why are you being so nice?”