Read Online Ariel's Crossing by Bradford Morrow - Free Book Online
Authors: Bradford Morrow
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other. The center managed several dozen residents, with a bed or two to spare. He asked Sarah if he could sweep the floors, or mop, or help out in the kitchen.
“Get better, we’ll square things some other day,” she told him, an arrangement that made Kip more restless than becalmed, as his continued impostoring began to weigh on him. Sarah was so straight, he so crooked. More than once he contemplated slipping out one night and running away from the Hill, presumably this time forever. But he knew it was a coward’s game, so stayed put.
Weeks ran into months. Some days were better than others. He and Sarah managed to make light of his unevenness after their own fashion. Mornings, she came into the room, brushed the curtain aside, and asked, “How’s the weather, my friend?” Depending on how he felt, Kip would reply, “Overcast with possible showers,” or “Sunny and continued warm.” If he didn’t have a sense of how the day was going to go, he might say, “Barometer’s broken.”
The Montoyas continued to be charitable. Carl dropped in to visit once a week and Marcos came by from time to time with his friend Franny and talked about horses—his Western Pleasure stud, a new yearling filly. Kind of them, but it begged the question, Who should care about Kip Calder? He had led a life of not much trusting people, and now he was doing just that with Sarah—trusting her. Had he really agreed to undergo the procedure, the chemotherapy, and see what happened? They’d done blood work, taken the scans, discovered the tumor. Hard to believe she’d managed to win such concessions from him. Suicide was no longer in the cards.
Meanwhile, the Ariel question came to temporary closure. She hadn’t come to find him. All for the best. He now wanted to get well in order not to see but evade her. Of late, not a night passed during which he failed to castigate himself for having invited Brice to Chimayó to set the record straight. History is meant to be elusive, unfinished and unfinishable. By trying to tame his past he only unleashed more of the present. He certainly wouldn’t blame Ariel if she trashed his pathetic tokens and told Brice and Jess that it was all too late.
Finish this chemo, put on a few pounds, get his strength back, and split. He could get a cash job somewhere and send the money to Sarah. Alone again, nameless. It was a pretty dream, but he knew he wasn’t employable. Knew his running days were over. Knew his avenues of escape had closed.
Beyond his window the skies continually changed from azure to white to pink to amethyst to amber to mauve. Summer walked by, fall behind it, and then it snowed outside, and the snow draped itself in the boughs of ponderosas on the bluffs of Acid Canyon and set white hats on the strawberry pots on the patio, itself covered in powder. The flowering fruit trees then blossomed, and patients planted seeds and seedlings in the raised beds—homely snapdragons and ugly petunias—which they could access from their wheelchairs and walkers. Cassin finches returned to the bird feeders, and still he was not dead. Indeed, Kip, having balded last autumn at the behest of chemicals and then, over winter and into this spring, regrown a head of hair in their aftermath, was more alive than Sarah had ever seen him. He pushed patients’ wheelchairs, even bounced around atop large red exercise-therapy balls with other convalescents, rocking and rolling to Menudo on the loudspeaker. He watched I Love Lucy dubbed into Spanish on the television with a fellow who looked for all the world like a very old baby in a robe printed with foxhunting scenes. Kip was coming along so nicely that the resident nurse allowed him to take over feeding the tropical fish in the saltwater aquarium—a red-eye tetra and Indian dwarf botia, an exotic silvery bichir that he contemplated for hours on end. When Sarah inquired, the doctors agreed that all indications were his cancer was in remission. The question
“Get better, we’ll square things some other day,” she told him, an arrangement that made Kip more restless than becalmed, as his continued impostoring began to weigh on him. Sarah was so straight, he so crooked. More than once he contemplated slipping out one night and running away from the Hill, presumably this time forever. But he knew it was a coward’s game, so stayed put.
Weeks ran into months. Some days were better than others. He and Sarah managed to make light of his unevenness after their own fashion. Mornings, she came into the room, brushed the curtain aside, and asked, “How’s the weather, my friend?” Depending on how he felt, Kip would reply, “Overcast with possible showers,” or “Sunny and continued warm.” If he didn’t have a sense of how the day was going to go, he might say, “Barometer’s broken.”
The Montoyas continued to be charitable. Carl dropped in to visit once a week and Marcos came by from time to time with his friend Franny and talked about horses—his Western Pleasure stud, a new yearling filly. Kind of them, but it begged the question, Who should care about Kip Calder? He had led a life of not much trusting people, and now he was doing just that with Sarah—trusting her. Had he really agreed to undergo the procedure, the chemotherapy, and see what happened? They’d done blood work, taken the scans, discovered the tumor. Hard to believe she’d managed to win such concessions from him. Suicide was no longer in the cards.
Meanwhile, the Ariel question came to temporary closure. She hadn’t come to find him. All for the best. He now wanted to get well in order not to see but evade her. Of late, not a night passed during which he failed to castigate himself for having invited Brice to Chimayó to set the record straight. History is meant to be elusive, unfinished and unfinishable. By trying to tame his past he only unleashed more of the present. He certainly wouldn’t blame Ariel if she trashed his pathetic tokens and told Brice and Jess that it was all too late.
Finish this chemo, put on a few pounds, get his strength back, and split. He could get a cash job somewhere and send the money to Sarah. Alone again, nameless. It was a pretty dream, but he knew he wasn’t employable. Knew his running days were over. Knew his avenues of escape had closed.
Beyond his window the skies continually changed from azure to white to pink to amethyst to amber to mauve. Summer walked by, fall behind it, and then it snowed outside, and the snow draped itself in the boughs of ponderosas on the bluffs of Acid Canyon and set white hats on the strawberry pots on the patio, itself covered in powder. The flowering fruit trees then blossomed, and patients planted seeds and seedlings in the raised beds—homely snapdragons and ugly petunias—which they could access from their wheelchairs and walkers. Cassin finches returned to the bird feeders, and still he was not dead. Indeed, Kip, having balded last autumn at the behest of chemicals and then, over winter and into this spring, regrown a head of hair in their aftermath, was more alive than Sarah had ever seen him. He pushed patients’ wheelchairs, even bounced around atop large red exercise-therapy balls with other convalescents, rocking and rolling to Menudo on the loudspeaker. He watched I Love Lucy dubbed into Spanish on the television with a fellow who looked for all the world like a very old baby in a robe printed with foxhunting scenes. Kip was coming along so nicely that the resident nurse allowed him to take over feeding the tropical fish in the saltwater aquarium—a red-eye tetra and Indian dwarf botia, an exotic silvery bichir that he contemplated for hours on end. When Sarah inquired, the doctors agreed that all indications were his cancer was in remission. The question
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