the darkness, unease seeping through him. He couldn’t shake it.
He tried to focus on the scent of Tess’s hair, an aroma like roses and mint. Strands of it rested against his shoulder and upper arm and he drew his fingers over it, marveling at the softness, the pale gold color. He longed to kiss her once more, to see if he felt again what he had experienced when his mouth first touched hers, as if the earth’s tectonic plates were shifting. A Hemingway moment. But he was reluctant to wake her.
Part of his unease concerned the holes that riddled his memory. He couldn’t remember anything about this trip prior to arriving at the Bodega del Cielo. The altitude and fatigue might account for it. But it didn’t explain why he was on a bus bound for a town he’d never heard of, accompanied by a black dog and a woman who looked so much like Lauren Bacall that it made his heart ache. And how could she be an FBI agent?
When he first had seen her back in the bodega, standing in the food line, he had pegged her for a teacher, a lawyer, a nurse, but also as something of a rebel in her personal life. He figured her for the type who sought out Middle Earth on weekends, got high with her boyfriend, demonstrated against the war, and ate organic foods.
But FBI? And that dead body back at the bodega?
He knew that he lived in Minneapolis and vaguely recalled a flight from there to Miami to Quito. Other than that, he wasn’t sure of anything. Mulling this over only made him more anxious and Ian finally shut his eyes. Almost immediately, his left brain shut down, his anxiety ebbed. He didn’t give a shit. He didn’t need all the answers this minute. Right now, the bus was the most comfortable choice.
When he opened his eyes again, the foggy windows fractured the light.He rubbed his fist against the glass and peered upward into Jimi Hendrix’s
Purple Sky.
Plum-colored and streaked with blinding white light, it was the kind of sky that urged him to believe in miracles. But the fog still hugged the windows and he couldn’t see much of the landscape.
Tess now leaned away from him, head resting against the window, jacket pulled over her shoulders. Nomad snoozed on a seat, the bus barreled on through the dawn. Ian straightened, knuckled the sleep from his eyes, and got up to use the restroom. He took his toothbrush with him. He could deal with nearly anything if his teeth were clean, probably a vestige of a childhood spent on military bases, where home was what you carried with you.
Home is where your toothbrush is, son,
his old man used to say.
Sure. That explained why his father hung himself in a bathroom, a toothbrush sticking out of his shirt pocket.
My home is death.
Ian slipped into the bathroom, shut the door, locked it. Laughable. Locking it against who or what? Tess? Manuel? The dog?
The bathroom was as spacious and clean as the rest of the bus. Plenty of hot water poured from the faucet, and the soap smelled like some herb he used when he cooked. Basil? Mint? Cilantro? Maybe a combo of all three. He liked that the scents were familiar to him. But when he raised his eyes to his reflection, he didn’t like what he saw. A haggard face. Tight, anxious mouth, terrified eyes that ached from lack of sleep. A man at the edge. But at the edge of what? Just what scared him so badly that his hands now shook? Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? Bathroom, toothbrush:
you don’t want to end up like him.
Ian squeezed his eyes shut, but it already was too late, he was
there,
a seventeen-year-old kid running down the hall to the shower one morning only to find his father hanging from a rope. He still could hear the way the rope creaked, see how his father’s eyes bulged in their sockets, tongue lolling from his mouth, face a ghastly blue. Nearly thirty years hadn’t diminished the clarity of this memory.
He gripped the sides of the sink, struggling to shake off the rest of the memory, but couldn’t. The wound had been torn open, the
He tried to focus on the scent of Tess’s hair, an aroma like roses and mint. Strands of it rested against his shoulder and upper arm and he drew his fingers over it, marveling at the softness, the pale gold color. He longed to kiss her once more, to see if he felt again what he had experienced when his mouth first touched hers, as if the earth’s tectonic plates were shifting. A Hemingway moment. But he was reluctant to wake her.
Part of his unease concerned the holes that riddled his memory. He couldn’t remember anything about this trip prior to arriving at the Bodega del Cielo. The altitude and fatigue might account for it. But it didn’t explain why he was on a bus bound for a town he’d never heard of, accompanied by a black dog and a woman who looked so much like Lauren Bacall that it made his heart ache. And how could she be an FBI agent?
When he first had seen her back in the bodega, standing in the food line, he had pegged her for a teacher, a lawyer, a nurse, but also as something of a rebel in her personal life. He figured her for the type who sought out Middle Earth on weekends, got high with her boyfriend, demonstrated against the war, and ate organic foods.
But FBI? And that dead body back at the bodega?
He knew that he lived in Minneapolis and vaguely recalled a flight from there to Miami to Quito. Other than that, he wasn’t sure of anything. Mulling this over only made him more anxious and Ian finally shut his eyes. Almost immediately, his left brain shut down, his anxiety ebbed. He didn’t give a shit. He didn’t need all the answers this minute. Right now, the bus was the most comfortable choice.
When he opened his eyes again, the foggy windows fractured the light.He rubbed his fist against the glass and peered upward into Jimi Hendrix’s
Purple Sky.
Plum-colored and streaked with blinding white light, it was the kind of sky that urged him to believe in miracles. But the fog still hugged the windows and he couldn’t see much of the landscape.
Tess now leaned away from him, head resting against the window, jacket pulled over her shoulders. Nomad snoozed on a seat, the bus barreled on through the dawn. Ian straightened, knuckled the sleep from his eyes, and got up to use the restroom. He took his toothbrush with him. He could deal with nearly anything if his teeth were clean, probably a vestige of a childhood spent on military bases, where home was what you carried with you.
Home is where your toothbrush is, son,
his old man used to say.
Sure. That explained why his father hung himself in a bathroom, a toothbrush sticking out of his shirt pocket.
My home is death.
Ian slipped into the bathroom, shut the door, locked it. Laughable. Locking it against who or what? Tess? Manuel? The dog?
The bathroom was as spacious and clean as the rest of the bus. Plenty of hot water poured from the faucet, and the soap smelled like some herb he used when he cooked. Basil? Mint? Cilantro? Maybe a combo of all three. He liked that the scents were familiar to him. But when he raised his eyes to his reflection, he didn’t like what he saw. A haggard face. Tight, anxious mouth, terrified eyes that ached from lack of sleep. A man at the edge. But at the edge of what? Just what scared him so badly that his hands now shook? Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? Bathroom, toothbrush:
you don’t want to end up like him.
Ian squeezed his eyes shut, but it already was too late, he was
there,
a seventeen-year-old kid running down the hall to the shower one morning only to find his father hanging from a rope. He still could hear the way the rope creaked, see how his father’s eyes bulged in their sockets, tongue lolling from his mouth, face a ghastly blue. Nearly thirty years hadn’t diminished the clarity of this memory.
He gripped the sides of the sink, struggling to shake off the rest of the memory, but couldn’t. The wound had been torn open, the
Similar Books
