Still no connection.
A well-groomed man carrying a bag of groceries passed by. His pager went off. Something in my head went off, too. Of course. Archie’s pager!
I dialed, punched in the number of the pay phone, hit the pound sign, and slammed down the receiver. Now all I had to do was stand there and wait, maybe get an empty coffee cup and hold it out to the Magic Mountaineers. Alms for the idiot.
Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. I just about yanked it off the wound metal cord.
“Archie?”
“Gagmaster?” he answered in his familiar baritone. “Sorry to be so long. We had to get to a pay phone.”
“Is she with you?” My heart beat fiercely.
“Affirmative.”
“Is she all right?”
“Of course,” he said. “She’s with
I sagged against the side of the phone booth, bursting with feelings I couldn’t comprehend.
Archie said,“Hey . . . you all right?”
“I am now.”
“Where are you?”
I told him.
“Okay,” he said, “take Five to Fourteen North to Pear Blossom Highway to Eighteen to Thirty-eight to Fawnskin. We’re at 2116 Fawn Skin Drive, just past the four-thousand-feet elevation mark. Look for the bear I made out of a tree. Got it?”
I said I did.
“Good,” he said.“Here.”
I heard the muffled sound of two voices, then one that made my knees weak, questioning, “Reb?”
“Ginny,” I breathed.
“Thank God. What happened at Pop’s?”
“Didn’t Archie tell you? He was there.”
“He was? That doesn’t make sense.”
“How did you hook up with him?”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Hurry.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m getting on the road.”
“Wait. Have you still got the Circles?”
Pride swelled in me. “I most definitely do.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, incredulous. “Are you telling me you actually figured them out?”
I let my silence answer.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you did it!”
“I’m coming to get you,” I told her, my mouth suddenly dirt-dry. “Be there in a couple of hours.”
“I’ll be waiting for you,” she whispered. “Bye.”
I hung up, gently this time, totally intoxicated with emotion, but thirsting for more, dying to drink from her well forever, to gulp quenching heartfuls of her.
There was plenty of gas in the Jag, too much blood in my veins, and exactly enough grit in my soul.
I passed roving headlights and billboards advertising blue jeans and breakfast specials. Satellite dishes prayed to the licorice sky, red-eyed fruit bats swooped, teenage lovers sweated, and me, the son of the museum curator and the woman with the acorn eyes, steered to where nature intended.
I felt a pull on the stitches in my back, triggering images of Pop and Mona—their tears and kindness. The two of them, maybe right this moment, under a well-worn quilt. Soft old skin touching soft old skin. Pop making merry with Mona the maiden. And afterward, chocolate-chip cookies. The stuff of Comptche, the husk of human life.
Before long I was bucking and dipping on the ridiculous Pear Blossom Highway, a two-lane shortcut to Big Bear. The San Bernardino Mountains were on my right, the dead-flat desert on my left. The road was so wavy, the highs and lows so extreme, that cars driving toward me looked like they were sending signals in Morse code.
I clicked on a classical station. Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 25 lilted on the radio and a strange chaotic sensation contrasted with the sweeping harmonious music. My breathing became shallow, my thoughts as coarse as a cat’s tongue. Disconcerted, I mentally administered a self-exam.
My back was definitely sore where Pop had sewn me up, my buns were barking, my knee ached from smacking the dashboard during the spinout, and my underwear had been up my crack for a hundred and fifty miles. Exam results: mental melee, physical foundering. Therapist’s recommendation: Change life and underwear.
