“I’ll wait.”
“It’ll take three or four days. Probably four.”
“I’ve waited a lot longer than that. There’s a pub in town. I got myself a room there. When you’re done, I’ll be there. I won’t leave this place without you.” She looked at me a moment longer, then said, “I have missed you so much. We both have, but I’m just goin’ crazy.”
Like I thought, the fence took another four days, during which time February slid into March. I didn’t go into Borroloola, didn’t see Sarah. I dug holes and put up fencing.
The second day, Sally came out. “She’s gonna steal you away, isn’t she? Miss super sexy?”
“She’s not stealing.”
“I hate her.”
The morning of the fifth day I put my clothes in a plastic bag and left. Kate knew I was going. I’d said good-bye the night before. I saw her watching, half a mile away. She was standing in the back of the pickup, shading her eyes, watching. She didn’t wave. I was glad I couldn’t see her face up close.
I was almost to the main road, fifty yards from the house, when Sally ran up behind me. I heard her footsteps and turned.
“You’re leaving?” she said. “Really?”
“Yup. Fence is done. I gotta go.”
Tears formed in her eyes. “Ma’s been crying. Mostly at night. Bet she’s crying right now.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“You shouldn’t leave.”
“Got to, kiddo. Be good. Take care of her.” I turned and headed toward town.
“Two minutes,” she called out.
I stopped and turned. “Huh?”
“You had shampoo in your eyes. I watched you for two whole minutes that night.” Then she turned and ran back to the house.
Kids.
Sarah and I drove to Cairns on Australia’s east coast, nearly fourteen hundred kilometers away, eight hundred seventy miles on National Route One, which was mostly hard-packed rust-red earth crossed by little rivers without bridges. Sometimes the Explorer was up to the floorboards in water as we eased through. The land was flat and hot and harsh—gum trees as far as the eye could see. A typical sign would read: Next Gas 341 Kilometers. A mound of earth four hundred feet high was cause to stop and take photographs.
Borroloola to Burketown was 492 kilometers of slow going. We stayed at The Burketown Pub. Printed on the side of the pale yellow two-story building were the words: “Australia’s Greatest Outback Hotel.”
“Outback, huh?” Sarah said. “I never would’ve guessed.” The Explorer was theoretically blue, but it was rust-red from all the dust. I didn’t know how vehicles survived more than one season out here.
The sun was low. The next decent-sized town was Croydon, three hundred seventy kilometers away. We ate at the pub and stayed the night in a room with a bed that wasn’t a queen.
“Looks like we got us a double bed,” I said, staring at it.
“It’s a full.”
“Looks double to me.”
“Trust me, it’s a full.”
“Are we talking terminology or size?”
“Who cares?” She did her thing—sat on the bed and bounced a few times. All of her. Then she did her other thing—slowly took off her clothes and invited me into the shower.
I took her up on it. It wasn’t sex, but it was damn nice anyway, and the view, as always, was something else. Spectacular, actually.
“Mort?”
“Yup.”
“You asleep?”
“Yup. I talk in my sleep a lot.”
“And make sense, too. That’s amazing.”
“Uh-huh. It’s a knack.”
She snuggled against me. “How’re you doing? I mean, without Jeri?”
“Not great, but better than I was five months ago.”
“Me, too. But it’s still . . . really lousy.”
“It is that.”
She was quiet for a while. Finally, she said, “There was that gifting thing, back then.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I guess it’s not necessary now . . . is it?”
“Guess not.”
“I was wondering if we could do that again. When we get back to Reno. Sort of on a regular basis, like Tuesdays?”
I tightened an arm around her. “I have been inside myself for a long time, Holiday. It’s been a quiet place, not always good, so the answer is yes. Any time.”
She kissed me. “Thank you.” She tucked herself in closer. “These past months . . . I’ve been so . . . so empty.”
“Whenever you want.”
She kissed my shoulder. “One other little thing?” “What’s that?”
“It’s March already. We’ve got a bicycle ride coming up.”
“Aw, jeez. You gotta be kidding.”
“Nope. Just thought you oughta know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE OFFICIAL COUNT that year was one thousand seven hundred thirty-two riders. About half of them were women so you might say it was a unisex sport, not that it looked unisex to me.
The World Naked Bike Ride was about to begin. Everyone had crowded into a wide area to one side of a sidewalk, facing the bay, northwest of the Ferry Building, between a Farmer’s Market and a Starbucks. The water was less than thirty feet away. Traffic slowed on the Embarcadero as it went by hundreds of naked people. Half an hour ago the word had been passed that there were enough of us in the group to strip down as far as we wanted, “as bare as you dare.” The police didn’t have any way to arrest that many. If no one strayed from the group, the police were okay with naked people protesting whatever.
Holiday and I were crowded against a four-foot concrete wall that kept us from being bumped into the water. Nude and seminude people milled about, talking, laughing. Bicycles lying all over made it difficult to walk around. I could turn my head and see a hundred dicks, a hundred pairs of breasts. Not everyone was naked, but most were. Holiday and I were in a warm patch of sunshine. She had a pot of red body paint and a brush and was kneeling on the grass in front of me, about to paint the stuff I didn’t want the entire world to get a good look at, for all the good a little paint would do. She was gloriously naked, not a stitch on, still sporting a three-quarter Brazilian. But the ride was supposed to be a protest or some sort of celebration,
