The Furthest City Light (38 page)

I shook my head as if to clear it. “Wow. When did you start kayaking?”

“Oh, I guess I started a few weeks after you left. I’m crazy about it.” She laughed. “You know, I think I finally understand why you love climbing. Even though it’s a little dangerous, it’s just so much fun.”

“Wow,” I repeated, feeling stunned and slightly queasy. Sometime in the last few months, my careful girlfriend had morphed into a thrill-seeking stranger and was doing things I would never in my most feverish hallucinations have imagined her doing. Sitting on a large poky raft with a pair of binoculars maybe, but kayaking?

“Rachel, are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m—I’m just surprised, that’s all. Kayaking? It seems so unlike you.”

She was silent for a moment. “Let’s see, I wonder if I can say this without sounding petulant. Oh, never mind. Anyway, when you left and I wasn’t sure when or if you’d ever return, I decided to try something totally new and different, something that wouldn’t remind me of you, or me and you. Does that make sense?”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, “it makes total sense.”

“Huh.” As if she’d been expecting a little back talk and I’d curtsied instead. “Well anyway, I’m glad you called because I’m coming in less than a week. I’ll be there next Monday around five in the afternoon. Are you staying at that apartment we rented three years ago?”

“You’re coming? That’s…great! What made you change your mind?” I sank down onto a lumpy purple couch, the only piece of furniture in Reuben and Frieda’s living room. Frieda was breastfeeding one of her children a few feet away from me. I nodded to her and she smiled back.

“It was actually my therapist’s idea,” Vickie explained. “We’ve been arguing about it for weeks. She thinks that after nine years I owe it to you—to the relationship—to sit down and talk with you in person.”

“I see.” I closed my eyes, counted three slow breaths, and then opened them. “Don’t come,” I said.

“What?”

“Cancel your reservation. I don’t want you coming here because your therapist is making you. You can only come if you have at least a little hope that we can pull this out. Otherwise, I don’t want to see you. I’m not as desperate as I was a month ago.” While I spoke, one of Frieda’s three-year-old twins climbed onto my lap and smeared what I hoped was orange marmalade across my clean white T-shirt. I shook my head and sighed.

“Okay now wait a minute,” Vickie said, sounding flustered. “First of all, my therapist can’t make me do anything. Second of all, I happen to agree with her, that I do owe you the courtesy of a face-to-face meeting. Besides, I’ve kept my promise and haven’t completely made up my mind. To be honest, I’ve tried to, but I couldn’t.” She paused. “Maybe I made it sound like it was all her idea so you wouldn’t expect anything.”

I shrugged. “I don’t expect anything. I hope, of course, but I don’t expect. Daniel says the difference—”

“Who’s Daniel?” she interrupted.

“The guy I meditate with every morning. At the bay.”

“You meditate?”

“Uh-huh, these days for about an hour, although once in a while we’ll go a little longer. It just depends.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m completely serious.” Another of Frieda’s children had climbed onto the back of the couch and was trying to braid my hair. I leaned forward in an attempt to discourage her, but she put her arms around my neck and held onto me. Meanwhile, I still had the other kid in my lap and a third one grabbing at my ankles. I looked over at Frieda and saw she was grinning: welcome to my world. Not in a thousand years, I thought.

“So you’ve really taken up meditation,” Vickie was saying. “That’s amazing. Well, so what’s it like?”

“Hmm, let me think.” I pictured Vickie’s face—those miraculous cheekbones, her dark brown eyes—but the image was a little blurry, like a photograph of someone in motion. Instead of sitting here covered in children, I wanted to be lying down next to her, our legs intertwined and my head resting on her chest. “Actually, I’d say it’s a lot like kayaking.”

“Is that right?” I could tell she was smiling in spite of herself. “How so?”

“Well for starters,” I was making this up as fast as I could, “each requires the ability to sit still and remain calm while you’re going through the rapids.”

“That’s very creative. How’s your Eskimo roll?”

I groaned. “It’s hit or miss on both sides.”

“Tell me about it.”

And we both laughed, a lovely sound that I used to take for granted. I swallowed hard, reminded myself to stay in the present. Before I could say anything else, Vickie asked about Daniel.

“Well,” I said, “he used to teach physics at Stanford and has written a number of bestselling books on the subject. Unfortunately, he also had a bad drinking problem. After his life fell apart, he went through rehab and now he’s down here for a while. He has a very interesting take on the world. I think you’ll like him.”

“Does that mean you want me to come?”

“Of course I do. It’s—” I paused, the lawyer in me searching for the perfect upbeat ending, the words that might just make a difference.

“Time?” she supplied. “I agree. See you next Monday.”

***

On Sunday afternoon, my landlady came by with a letter from Emily. I sat down at the kitchen table and turned the plain white envelope over a few times in my hands. The return address gave no clue as to her true location. All it said was E. Watkins, followed by an innocuous sounding street address in Canon City, and then a series of numbers, Emily’s numerical identification in the Colorado Department of Corrections. Finally I opened it. The letter was written on lined paper that had been carefully torn out of a notebook.

Dear Rachel,

Greetings from the Gray Bar Motel! I can’t tell you how delighted I was to receive your letter. To tell you the truth, when I saw your handwriting on the envelope, I burst out crying. I’d readily accepted that I would be here for the rest of my life, but still hadn’t reconciled myself to never hearing from you again. Thank God I don’t have to. But please don’t feel compelled to write more often than is comfortable. A single letter goes a long way here at the Gray Bar. I’m just grateful that you wrote.

First of all, I’m so relieved that you’re safe and well. Someday, I’d like to hear what happened in Nicaragua. It obviously affected you. After Vickie told me when I’d called that you’d gone down there, I started reading everything I could find about the history of Central America, but as you can imagine, the library here is quite limited. In fact, I’ve been wondering if there’s any way to advocate for better funding without getting myself in trouble—always the bottom line here.

Yes, I’ve been forced to make a few changes, none of which (at least so far) have altered the core of who I am. Ultimately, in order to survive, I will have to learn a whole new language and culture. Luckily, my cellmate, Linda Sue, has taken me under her wing. She just turned thirty, but has been a resident since she was twenty-four. Like me, she’s a lifer—her boyfriend shot a gas station attendant during a robbery, which netted them thirty-seven dollars and an armload of Hershey bars. Thanks to her sound advice, I’ve managed to avoid most of the pitfalls that await newly incarcerated “girls.” (Rachel, please tell me if you want more details. The last thing I want to do is bore you. Some pen pals, like my friend Alice, have expressed a predilection for long monologues describing who, what, when and where, which I’m happy to write. But I’m guessing that like me, you’d prefer a shorter, more “poetic” letter. Let me know. In the meantime, I’ll trust my instincts and err on the side of brevity.)

I’ve already begun to think about a potential long-range project here, a hospice program for dying inmates. Since I started working in the infirmary, I’ve met three young women who have AIDS. What a nightmare! Although more and more inmates are likely to be affected, no one seems to be planning for it. I know this sounds altruistic, but it really isn’t. My greatest fear since arriving is not that I’ll be attacked or hurt in any way, but rather that I’ll end up having lived a life that had no purpose. Which means, for very selfish reasons, I need to find one. Until then, in the immortal words of Robert Crumb, I’ll keep on truckin’.

Your friend,

Emily

After reading the letter twice, I placed it on the kitchen table next to a beautiful abalone shell I’d found the day before. Although the room was much too warm, I didn’t move to turn on the overhead fan. Instead, I closed my eyes and marveled at Emily’s extraordinary ability to adapt and, given her sheltered existence, her surprising wealth of knowledge. For instance, how the hell had she known about Robert Crumb? I shook my head and smiled. My Emily, still full of surprises. If anyone could flourish in a women’s penitentiary, it would be her. At the very least, with a little help from her friends, she would endure.

Which reminded me. I glanced at the little Mexican calendar I’d taped to my refrigerator and realized it was time to send another installment of money to Sonia.

“It’s called
tsedaka
,” Daniel said, when I told him I’d decided to send my Nicaraguan host twenty dollars a month for as long as I was able.

Daniel, who isn’t Jewish but has studied many of the world’s religions, says that the Hebrew word
tsedaka
refers to the Jewish religious principle of charity, but its root word is the same as in the Hebrew term designating justice. In fact, he says, the term is generally understood to mean an obligation.

“Think of it,” he said, “as an obligation you owe as a member of the human race. These days, I give money to the local AA chapter, which needs better coffee and more comfortable chairs.” He paused. “I think it’s okay that the giver benefits too.”

But it’s really not
tsedaka
. Well, maybe it is, but to me it’s much simpler. Sonia is a friend of mine. She allowed me to stay in her home for as long as I wished; she took care of me when I was ill; she has less means to make a living than I do. Ergo, I will send her money (but not too much or she’ll return it) to ease her life a little and, if I know Sonia, the lives of those around her.

***

When it was time, I took a cab to the airport and waited in the terminal for Vickie’s plane to arrive. Half an hour later, I watched through a huge spotless window as her tiny commuter plane landed and taxied to a stop in front of me. Within minutes, passengers began emerging from a door next to the cockpit. Vickie was the fourth one out. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse and matching cotton pants. Even from a distance, I could see the muscles on her arms from kayaking. Her jet-black hair shone in the brilliant sunlight.

I took a deep breath. Well, let’s give it a go, I thought.

We hugged for a long time.

“You look terrific,” I whispered.

“So do you,” she answered, and then stepped back for a more serious appraisal. “You’re too thin, but your eyes are clear and your color is good.”

“So is yours,” I joked, embarrassed by her obvious albeit professional concern.

After dropping her suitcase off at the apartment, we hiked to the bay and waited for the sun to begin its celebrated descent into the Pacific Ocean. We sat facing the horizon, glad to have such an easy excuse to postpone the inevitable, the moment when we looked into each other’s eyes and possibly saw the opposite of what we felt. Later, tomorrow or the next day, we would do it. Right now, though, how pleasant to be sitting with our shoulders not quite touching, lobbing safe and noncommittal words back and forth across the net.

As the sun slowly set in front of us, we talked about our friends in Boulder, the heat in Nicaragua, the gear you need to kayak, my current diet, etcetera. When the sunset show was over, we applauded with the rest of the audience, brushed the sand off our clothes, and started walking back. We took our time, stopping at a little market to look for oatmeal which they didn’t have, and settling on a ripe papaya, some apples and a couple of bananas. As soon as we walked through the door, I could see Vickie eyeing the double bed with suspicion.

I shrugged. “I’m sorry. There’s no room for another bed. Even if my landlady had one.”

She pretended it was no big deal. “It’s fine, Rachel. We’re adults.”

She wandered around the room, picking things up and putting them down. I had to resist the urge to stop her. After her fourth or fifth circuit, I began to miss my solitary life.

“Would you like some juice or water?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No thank you.”

I showed her the letter I’d received from Emily and the books I’d bought in the Dallas airport. We were running out of neutral topics. Finally, although it was barely nine o’clock, we both said we were tired. A few minutes later, wearing our T-shirts and panties, we crawled into bed and lay face up staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t really even dark yet.

“Dear God,” I muttered, “please, please, please let us sleep.”

Vickie started to laugh and then so did I, which cut some of the awkward tension. After a while, I heard her breathing change, and sometime after that, I fell asleep as well.

At around one in the morning, Vickie bolted straight up, pulling the sheet away from me.

“What the hell is that?” she asked.

“What?” I mumbled, trying to pull a little of the sheet back.

“That loud crashing sound. My God!”

I listened for a moment. “Oh, I guess I’ve gotten used to it. It’s just the waves crashing on the rocks below us. Mother Nature on a well-deserved rampage. She waits until the summer when there aren’t so many tourists.” I put my hand on Vickie’s shoulder. “Come on, let me spoon you.”

Vickie sat there for a moment, shaking her head, but finally she nodded.

When she’d settled back down on her side, I slid my body next to hers and pulled her gently toward me. After a couple of seconds, she stopped resisting and even scooted back an inch until her body was pressed snugly into mine. It felt so right, which of course didn’t mean a thing.

A few minutes later she whispered, “This isn’t a done deal, Rachel.”