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. Ted!”
“Hug me.”
“All right, but it won’t make any difference.”
“Of course not, but do it anyway.”
“All right. I am.”
“Good.”
“Well, as long as we’re doing this madhouse thing, you could hug me back. I need it too, you know.”
“You bet. Gosh, what an armload you are. I’d almost forgotten.”
“No cracks, wise guy. I’ll break your effing head.”
“Rebecca.”
Silence.
“Rebecca.”
“Yes?”
“Listen.”
“Speak. I’m listening.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. We’re both sorry.”
“I’m very sorry.” I was very, very sorry. I had failed to be the person she needed me to be. I knew that now. And I couldn’t, not then or now—be that person. I knew that too. I knew those two things. Did I have to come all the way here to find them out?
“Steady on, old chap,” I said.
“Right. Steady on,” she answered.
I could feel her withdrawing from me then, leaving my arms, the miles of space between us restoring themselves unquestionably.
“Goodbye, Rebecca.”
“Goodbye, Ted.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
“Q’onk tipeya.”
“What’s that? Is it Spanish?”
“No. It’s Mam.” It had slipped out of its hiding place, glottal stop and all, which I was never good at. “It means ‘Strength to you.’ I think.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
Then we said goodbye again, about four times each, and hung up. It was a real goodbye. Hers and mine, too. It was over, with a finality that all the legal papers and signatures in the world could not produce. Not adiós, and not hasta la vista, not “See you later.” More like “You may leave now, if you like.” Go, in safety and health. Vaya con Dios, my darling.
Why hadn’t I said that, I wondered, finding the way back to my room in the dark. I’d also forgotten to tell her why I called.
TWELVE
The next morning at the school, before meeting Catherine, I made it a point to connect with Carlos Méndez. We conversed in Spanish in the office, while he beamed at my progress like a proud parent.
“I must show you off tonight at a little party I am giving,” he said. Friends of his from the States were staying at the Buen Viaje, a local inn, and were joining him in entertaining some other U.S. visitors. He was inviting students. I promised to be there, politely.
I told Catherine about the language breakthrough next, expecting her to come up with some kind of an I-told-you-so. Instead, she gave me a high-five. But that was the extent of the celebration. We reviewed verbs most of the day. She had listed them on a pack of three-by-five cards. She shuffled these over and over and fanned them out in her hand. I was to pick one, blindly, and use it in a sentence. I had two minutes only for each sentence, completed and corrected. We did this all morning and again after lunch, until I couldn’t stand any more. I reached over and gathered the cards together
