The Hotel Eden(68)

“Just now,” I said. “I’ll hit the Rensdales’ and on in. Over.”

“Sonnyboy,” she said. “Just pick up there. Mr. Rensdale died yesterday. Remember the portable unit, okay? And good luck at school. Stop in if you’re down for Christmas break. Over.”

I waited a minute to over and out to Nadine while the news subsided in me. I was on Scottsdale Road at Camelback, where I turned right. That corner will always be that radio call. “Copy. Over,” I said.

I just drove. Now the sky was ripped apart the way I’ve learned only a western sky can be, the glacial cloud cover broken and the shreds gathering against the Superstition Mountains, the blue air a color you don’t see twice a summer in the desert, icy and clear, no dust or smoke. All the construction crews in Scottsdale had given it up and the bright lumber on the sites sat dripping in the afternoon sun. They had taken the day off from changing this place.

In front of the Rensdales’ townhouse I felt odd going to the door with the empty dolly. I rang the bell, and after a moment Elizabeth appeared. She was barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, and she just looked at me. “I’m sorry about your father,” I said. “This is tough.” She stared at me and I held the gaze. “I mean it. I’m sorry.”

She drifted back into the house. It felt for the first time strange and cumbersome to be in the dark little townhouse. She had the air conditioning cranked way up so that I could feel the edge of a chill on my arms and neck as I pulled the dolly up the stairs to Mr. Rensdale’s room. It had been taken apart a little bit, the bed stripped, our gear all standing in the corner. With Mr. Rensdale gone you could see what the room was, just a little box in the desert. Looking out the window over the pool and the two dozen tiled roofs before the edge of the Indian reservation and the sage and creosote bushes, it seemed clearly someplace to come and die. The mountains, now all rinsed by rain, were red and purple, a pretty lie.

“I’m going back Friday.” Elizabeth had come into the room. “I guess I’ll go back to school.”

“Good,” I said. “Good idea.” I didn’t know what I was saying. The space in my heart about returning to school was nothing but dread.

“They’re going to bury him tomorrow.” She sat on the bed. “Out here somewhere.”

I started to say something about that, but she pointed at me. “Don’t come. Just do what you do, but don’t come to the funeral. You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” I said. Her tone had hurt, made me mad.

“My mother and sister will be here tonight,” she said.

“I want to,” I said. I walked to the bed and put my hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t.”

I bent and looked into her face.

“Don’t.”

I went to pull her toward me to kiss her and she leaned away sharply. “Don’t, David.” But I followed her over onto the bed, and though she squirmed, tight as a knot, I held her beside me, adjusting her, drawing her back against me. We’d struggled in every manner, but not this. Her arms were tight cords and it took more strength than I’d ever used to pin them both against her chest while I opened my mouth on her neck and ran my other hand flat inside the front of her pants. I reached deep and she drew a sharp breath and stretched her legs out along mine, bumping at my ankles with her heels. Then she gave way and I knew I could let go of her arms. We lay still that way, nothing moving but my finger. She rocked her head back.

About a minute later she said, “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” I said.

Then she put her hand on my wrist, stopping it. “Don’t,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Elizabeth,” I said, kissing at her nape. “This is what we do. Don’t you like it?”

She rose to an elbow and looked at me, her face rock-hard, unfamiliar. “This is what we do?” Our eyes were locked. “Is this what you came for?” She lay back and thumbed off her pants until she was naked from the waist down. “Is it?”

“Yes,” I said. It was the truth and there was pleasure in saying it.

“Then go ahead. Here.” She moved to the edge of the bed, a clear display. The moment had fused and I held her look and I felt seen. I felt known. I stood and undid my belt and went at her, the whole time neither of us changing expression, eyes open, though I studied her as I moved looking for a signal of the old ways, the pleasure, a lowered eyelid, the opening mouth, but none came. Her mouth was open but as a challenge to me, and her fists gripped the mattress but simply so she didn’t give ground. She didn’t move when I pulled away, just lay there looking at me. I remember it as the moment in this life when I was farthest from any of my feelings. I gathered the empty cylinder and the portable gear with the strangest thought: It’s going to take me twenty years to figure out who I am now.