“I wish I could ask you to stay.” A corner of his mouth twitched. “Again.”
“I wish I could stay.” Sinking into the bedside chair, I lowered my forehead to our joined hands. “Again.”
“Did Dante give you the unfinished business lecture?”
Against my will, I found myself smiling, even as a lone tear trickled from the corner of my eye to bathe the back of his hand. “Yes.”
“I hate admitting he’s right.”
“Oh, Jack—” I wished I had the strength to battle the tears, but I simply couldn’t. Not any longer. I had come to love so much about him, but I didn’t love him. I couldn’t. There was too much standing between us. And he didn’t love me either. The surety of that knowledge filled me with an indescribable sadness I couldn’t begin to understand. How could I mourn for something I hadn’t sought or wanted—that, in fact, didn’t actually exist?
“Christ, if only things had been different.”
The fantasy his words conjured flitted in and out of my mind, sweet and tempting before reality reasserted itself. “We most likely would never have met.”
“Ever the pragmatist.” His hand released mine, but only to cradle my cheek in his palm—maintaining contact until the bitter end. “So what are you going to do now?” The corner of his mouth quirked slightly before he gave up pretense that this was all right. That it was truly what either of us really wanted.
“Jack …” My voice trailed helplessly. Why was he making this so hard?
“Ah.” His hand fell from my face to the blankets as his gaze shifted once again to the window. Looking for answers? Escape?
“Dante gave you the clean break for your own good treatise as well, I’m presuming.” His speech, for the first time in recent memory, reverting to the clipped syllables and rounded patrician tones of our earliest meetings.
“Constance, actually.” My hands recaptured his, desperate to hold on for just a moment longer. “Is it a mistake, Jack?”
“What?”
“Allowing others to determine what our choices should be? What direction our lives should take? Are we making an enormous mistake?” My hold tightened, committing his touch to memory and praying, for the first time in a very long time, for divine guidance.
“It’s not as if either of us has a stellar track record in decision making. Our intentions might have been for the good, but at what cost?”
“We’re still here. We’ve survived.”
“True.” He finally looked away from the window and met my gaze, his eyes as clear as I’d ever seen them, for once lacking the turmoil that had too often dulled their brilliant colors. “But is surviving the same as living?”
Several moments, pregnant with the words of a thousand unspoken conversations elapsed until, finally, he inclined his head toward the closed door.
“No—”
“You need to, because I can’t. I’m on the verge of being the biggest selfish bastard imaginable, so you need to go. Go live and I’ll do my damnedest to do the same and then maybe someday …” A cough masked the faltering of his voice, providing an excuse for him to turn away.
Knowing this was my last chance—that I had to let go, or else I wouldn’t be able to at all—I released his hand and backed away.
“Maybe someday,” I repeated, taking another step back, and another, the growing distance desperately needed. My heart broke anew, realizing that my last sight of him for the foreseeable future would be through a watery, blurry scrim, but there was no alternative. I simply couldn’t take the necessary time to gather myself—to be an adult and leave calmly and rationally, with careful guarded goodbyes and an impersonal take care of yourself, secure in the knowledge that we were doing the right thing. How could I be at all certain this was the right thing? As many mistakes as I’d made in my life, could this be the biggest?
I lurched into the hallway and into Constance’s waiting arms which closed around me as much to comfort as to keep me from running straight back into Jack’s room.
“You’re going to be fine, darling.” She drew away, her free hand smoothing my hair back with an elegant hand, soft brown eyes bright with emotion. “You’re a strong girl and you’re going to be fine.” I had no idea how she knew with such certainty, but she knew—knew that I wanted nothing more than to retreat. To lock the door against an outside world I was terrified to face without benefit of the protective armor with which I’d shielded myself for so long.
Which, for the first time made me think, perhaps, just perhaps … what Dante and Greg and Constance were urging might, after all, be the right thing.
Go live and I’ll do my damnedest to do the same and then maybe someday…
If Jack could come face to face with himself—confront his demons in order to move forward and whatever the future might bring—then maybe, just maybe—so could I.
Twenty-eight
I lifted the latch on the chain link fence gate, the metallic squeak like a ghost’s wail, thin and lonely. What if no one was here? What if they’d left—moved away? My gaze scanned the yard and faded stucco exterior looking for any indication of either their continued residence or signs that someone new now inhabited this small shabby box.
I remained still, balanced between two of the round paving stones marking the path to the front door, imagining them much like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs.
Nothing prevents happiness like the memory of happiness.
The words floated through the transom of my mind, a teasing whisper recalled from a book, read during another lifetime and near-forgotten until this moment. It’s not that I had ever been happy here. Living here had been a constant, concrete reminder of all I’d lost. I would never have been completely happy here. I could never be happy here.
But I could make peace—could reconcile past and present. Depending on what I’d find at the end of the path, I could at least reassure myself that I’d tried. And in the act of trying, I could finally move forward.
One measured step after another, I followed the stones until I stood in front of the door, my hand hovering just above the peeling brass knocker. I hesitated for another moment, doing nothing more than listening—to the distant traffic sounds from Calle Ocho, the insistent beat of a Tito Puente song drifting from a nearby radio. I even imagined I could hear the pop and sizzle of the onions and garlic being stirred in hot olive oil whose scent wafted from the cracked-open jalousies of a neighboring window.
I could even swear—beneath all of those noises—that I could discern the cultured voices of Mr. and Mrs. Cleaver, gently admonishing Beaver for some mischief or another. So even and well-modulated, every hurt and injury addressed and solved with nothing more than a few well-placed words.
Was it real? Or simply my imagination, returning to the final night I’d spent in this house? My injuries and hurts too deep-seated and overwhelming for good intentions and well-meaning words.
Taking a deep breath, I lifted the knocker and let it drop once. Then again. The sound of approaching footsteps echoed the heavy pounding of my heart. As they drew closer, I shut my eyes—unwilling to see. So afraid to be disappointed.
“Talia? Oh my God … Talia?”
The voice held but an echo of what it had once been, but it was enough. I opened my eyes.
“Carlito.”
I said it again, my voice muffled against the front of his shirt as he hugged me close—my baby brother who now towered over me.
“Carlito.”
MEN WALK ON MOON
Voice From Moon: ‘Eagle Has Landed’
The New York Times
July 21, 1969
* * *
Epilogue
July 1969
Everything and nothing had changed.
The roads still twisted and turned, hugging the mountain curves like a lover’s embrace. The setting sun still bathed the uniquely California landscape in shimmering gold and white, accented at this time of year with radiant fingers of red and orange, beckonin
g twilight closer. The endless expanse of beach remained familiar and welcoming, knots of people scattered across its surface while surfers still paddled far out into the Pacific, ever in search of the perfect wave. And the salt and brine on the air still spoke of an exhilarating freedom.
Yet so very much else was different—the world having succumbed to changes no one could have possibly predicted. There had been cultural revolutions and riots and heartbreaking losses—from the brutal, seemingly endless conflict half a world away in Vietnam, to the ones closer to home. The lost including young men whether willing or not sent to fight a war not our own, to the fine minds and noble hearts taken too soon by the whims of madmen.
There was, as of yesterday evening, a man, standing on the moon’s surface at the hopefully named Tranquility Base, looking back toward a peaceful blue and green and white sphere, literally a world removed from the turmoil that rocked humanity in ways both large and small.
But perhaps nothing had changed so much in the last tumultuous four years as the solitary man, easily balanced on the promontory separating two segments of sandy beach. Wearing loose dark pants and a shirt that the incoming breezes molded closely to a body rendered perhaps too thin—a sharp contrast to the business suits and preppy khakis and starched button-downs he’d once worn like impenetrable armor. The hair, too, was longer, brushing past his collar and falling across his forehead, no more razor-cut and sharp angles, slicked back as if to reveal all, but in reality, as much a mask as the former young lawyer’s wardrobe had been a costume. For a role he had played for far too long and in which he’d very nearly lost himself.
Took one to know one, after all.
And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t undergone my fair share of changes as well. The dark structured sheath dresses and ladylike pumps exchanged for light, flowing dresses and airy sandals in the rainbow hues which I’d denied myself in my attempts to blend in.
To hide.
My hair, too, worn loose rather than imprisoned in the chignons and French twists that had served as much as armor as Jack’s Savile Row suits and engraved cufflinks. The one anomaly to my seemingly Bohemian wardrobe was the diamond pendant worn on a thin platinum chain around my neck. The past had finally been delegated to its rightful place, but that stone would remain with me always. My touchstone.
“Ready, doll?”
Hugging my elbows close, I kept my stare fixed on Jack, drinking in all the changes. As solitary and aloof as ever, yet at the same time projecting a certain vulnerability he wore as comfortably as the new wardrobe and hair.
“You’re absolutely certain he wants me here?” I murmured to Dante as we stepped from the parking lot’s asphalt surface to the sand.
“You think I would screw with you about this?”
“No. Not really.” I shook my head as I put a hand to his shoulder for balance, slipping off one sandal, then the other. “As manipulative a bastard as you can be, this is the one thing I’m certain you wouldn’t play with.” I sighed and toyed with the thin leather straps of the sandals, twisting them around my fingers.
His brows drew together as his sharp gaze raked over me with a fond—and familiar—exasperation. “You know, I think I liked it better when you used to be all reserved and proper. This outspokenness of yours still takes me by surprise every now and again. And you know I don’t like surprises.”
“You would prefer boring?”
“Doll, the one thing you have never been is boring.” The corners of his mouth quirked briefly before his expression settled back into somber lines. “Look—he had only two requests—that it be here and that I bring you.”
The late-afternoon heat of the sand soaked into the soles of my feet, the grittiness heightening awareness to a razor-sharp point. “I admit, I wondered if this day would ever come.”
“It was inevitable.” His response was clipped, yet resigned. “Come on—let’s get it over with.” Taking Dante’s proffered arm, we traversed the short distance to where Jack stood, seemingly lost in thought and unaware of our approach. A deception that was revealed as his voice drifted back while we were still several steps away.
“I’m glad you came, Natalia.”
Reserve and uncertainty dissipated like the mist splashing over the rocks from the incoming waves. Dropping my shoes to the sand and releasing Dante’s arm, I crossed the final few feet on my own, reaching out to grasp Jack’s outstretched hand as he pulled me up onto rocks worn smooth by millennia of waves. Up close, I noted more changes—the beginnings of gray at his temples that lent a new gravity to his features and a fine webbing of lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, as if evidence of many days spent staring into the distance. Overall, however, there was a far more settled air about him. Settled, that is, but for the shadows lurking in his eyes, shadows that were nevertheless accompanied by a smile as he grasped both of my hands—a hold I returned with a squeeze of my own. This moment had been inevitable.
“I couldn’t say no. Even if I’d wanted to. Which I didn’t.”
His smile deepened as my voice drifted off on the ocean breeze.
“Like I said—I’m glad. I can’t imagine doing this without either of you.” He glanced past my shoulder to acknowledge Dante’s presence. Releasing my hands, he turned to pick up the small silver urn that had been resting on the rocks by his feet.
“How did it happen?” I asked quietly as he turned the urn in his hands, studying the play of light and waves across the warm burnished surface.
“The way she would have wanted,” he replied, looking out toward the horizon. “You know we’d found that facility for her outside Monterey—” The smile he exchanged with Dante who’d joined us on the promontory was wistful and tinged with more than a bit of irony, sending a cold finger of a chill down my spine despite the day’s lingering warmth. “We thought she’d like being near the ocean, you know?”
From an outcropping of rocks further down the beach a lone seal barked, as if in understanding. “Short story is, she somehow managed to escape the building one night and make her way to the beach. They found her the next day, just … floating.”
“Not your fault, brother,” Dante interjected as Jack’s voice tapered off. “You know her doctors all said it was likely more a matter of when than if.”
Jack nodded, his thumb toying over the simple engraved name and dates etched on the smooth metal. “I know.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked, mesmerized by the dance a pair of seagulls were performing against the lavender-hued twilight sky.
“The bus station.”
Shocked, I looked from Jack to Dante for confirmation. “Yeah.” Dante shrugged, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his linen slacks. “None of us. Not Jack or me or Greg or Constance. Sent back every damned letter anyone tried writing. Her doctors said we were better off just letting it be. Like I said—they told us it was a matter of when, not if, so I figure their reasoning was it was best for her to have what peace she could. If any.”
“I hope so,” Jack murmured beside me. “I hope so,” he repeated, as he began unscrewing the urn’s lid. Stepping forward, he drew his arm back then forward in a graceful arc, fine gray ash following the same trajectory until it was picked up by the wind and carried out to sea. Without a word, he handed the urn to Dante and stepped back, and it seemed like the most natural thing to reach out and take his hand, the feel of his fingers around mine intimately familiar, even after all this time. Silently we watched as Dante tossed the remaining ashes into the wind before pressing a kiss to the urn and flinging it far out into the surf where it bobbed for a few moments, capturing the seagulls’ attention, until it was swallowed by the blue-gray waves. As the setting sun captured the final glints of silver, a measure of weightlessness overtook me, a profound sense of gratefulness.
“Vaya con Dios,” I whispered into the oncoming night.
With a deep breath, Dante turned his back to the ocean. “Well, if you two don’t mind, I’m gonna take myself off
for a bit. Jack?”
Releasing my hand with a crooked half-smile, Jack followed Dante a few steps away where they had a quick, hushed exchange before Dante pulled Jack close for a quick embrace and the type of kiss on the cheek that only the most confident and masculine of men could exchange without hesitation or embarrassment.
“I’m to get you back to the hotel,” Jack said as he returned to my side. Rather than take my hand again, he stood, arms crossed, his restless gaze playing across the water, the families slowly packing up after a long day on the shore, the surfers determined to grab that one last perfect wave.
“I presumed as much.”
“You appear to have made a hell of an impression on him the last few years.”
“Dante and I, we understand each other.” A statement conveyed in a tone that I hoped expressed the nature of our understanding.
“So I’ve gathered.” Like Dante, he turned his back to the ocean, shifting his focus completely to me. This close, I could discern the individual greens and ambers and golds in the eyes I’d so long ago likened to those of the mythical faun. And as remarkable and otherworldly as they remained, they also carried within them a calm, centered feel, to borrow the vernacular of the yogi whose book I’d most recently worked on. Whether Ava had ultimately found peace or not, Jack clearly had. At some point, he had finally let go.
What did he see, looking into my eyes, I wondered?
“I heard your father works for him now.”
I nodded. “Dante decided it would be a wise move to build an oceanfront hotel north of Miami Beach. He sees that as the next big area of growth and tourism in the city. And he thought hiring someone who was bilingual and had a wealth of business experience would be to his benefit. Allow him to keep his primary focus in Las Vegas while expanding his empire.”
Between Here and Gone Page 29
