The Second Letter

by Robert Lane

“Mainly passion.”

  “I’ve been told that mine are extreme.”

  “Hmm.” She let it out as a lyrical tone that would make Handel jealous.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll let reason hold the rein,” I said.

  “What a shame.”

  “It is.”

  “Franklin, right?”

  I said, “‘If passion drives you, let reason hold the reins.’”

  She considered that and said, “If I had to choose, I would run with the stars and surrender to extreme passion instead of holding onto the reins.”

  I stepped in closer. Kathleen smiled, reached out, and touched me lightly on my left shoulder. Little stars started pinging around in my head.

  Member of a highly disturbed gender.

  I brought her body up tight to mine and held her, felt her breathing, her ribs, all of her pressed hard against me. I placed my mouth over hers but did not kiss her. Instead as she breathed out, I closed my eyes and breathed in. I pulled away.

  “Where would you like to go?” I asked.

  “You lead.”

  I took her hand and we walked out the door.

  We stood in her unfurnished condo in downtown St. Pete, twelve floors above Tampa Bay. Our backs were to the water as we appraised her new kitchen and great room that was not great but magnificent.

  “Sophia and I spent hours with different combinations of backsplash tiles. What do you think of the finalists?”

  Three patterns were taped to the wall behind her granite counter tops and she had just sprayed them with water. If I had heard the name “Sophia” once that night, I had heard it a dozen times.

  “The one in the middle.”

  “Really, because I—oh no, you’re not getting away with that. Try. Really look at them. You can do it.”

  I turned and looked at the water down below and out far. I lived on the water; Kathleen was going to live above the water. They are different ways of experiencing the same vastness. I liked mine better. I could smell it, taste it, bear witness to wildlife’s relentless struggle to survive, feel the sea breeze sweep in off the water and experience the vast canopy of stars as they emerge at night to blanket the placid surface. Up there, it was all too distant, too removed. As if none of it really mattered. Perhaps I lived on the water while my mind remained twelve floors up. It hit me as a serious thought. I stockpiled it for another day.

  “Jake?”

  I turned around to her and transitioned my thoughts. “Where are your books going?”

  “Oh, Sophia had a great idea for the shelves in the library. Come look.”

  I followed her as she glided over the smooth hardwood floor and entered the room she was going to finish as a library. It was vacant. Thick crown molding wrapped the twelve-foot ceiling, and the ten-foot window was partitioned with stained grids. The window faced east. Morning sun. A perfect perch.

  Kathleen said, “This was labeled a ‘media room.’ You know, stuffed cheap chairs facing a blank seventy-inch screen. I just don’t get that. I’m putting bookcases on the two sides. I was going to use a ladder, like you see in old libraries, but Sophia insisted they look trite and eat up too much floor space. Instead, she suggested I top the shelves at six feet as that allows for pictures to be hung above them. Isn’t that good? I would have placed all sorts of dust-loving mementos on the top or tried to cram every book I own into the room. The pictures will be so much nicer and break it up. I’ll rotate the books.”

  I closed the distance between us.

  “What do you think?”

  I didn’t stop.

  “Oh no,” she said.

  “What happened to ‘oh yes’?”

  “When was that?”

  “The night under the hibiscus.”

  “What a lovely title.”

  “Now is different?”

  “I’ve spent an hour getting all made up.”

  “Twenty-nine minutes, actually.”

  “I dropped some time on it before you arrived.”

  “And I’ve dropped the reins.”

  “I doubt we’ll miss them.”

  “They are slippery at best, Ms. Rowe.”

  “Actually, it’s doctor.”

  I hesitated. “Interesting. Literature, right? I thought you were just doing postgraduate work on the side.” Our arms were wrapped around each other and our eyes were locked.

  “I completed it all and decided to run out of books and into life.”

  “Nice. Are you running to or from?”

  “No talking in the library.”

  Our tongues shed the cumbersome words and took flight in their own language—slow and moist and warm and searching. We never said another word but lay in the library with her body between the hard floor and me.

  The one in the middle. I was right. That is the one I like.

  We took a table at a pizza joint two blocks from her condo. Her hair was down, her shoes were tossed, and there was a can of beer in front of her. She had declined a glass. She attacked the pepperoni pie like there was no tomorrow.

  A statistical probability for all of us.

  We decided to forego the whole “I felt like dressing up” dinner plan when I mentioned pizza and beer. It seemed to fit the mood that the evening had acquired. She talked more about her day with Sophia and that disturbed me. When it was all nailed down, Sophia would likely be without a husband and a home and it would be you-know-whose fault. Maybe she didn’t see that coming.

  “You realize that Escobar has drawn the attention of the government and that he might lose much of what he has,” I said while wondering why we ever eat anything other than pizza.

  “He’s a bad person?”

  “I don’t think bad like your ex-Chicago friends, but I wouldn’t bet against it either. He owes money to the IRS and is liable to lose his home before it’s all done.”

  She consumed pizza at a frantic pace and then said, “What will happen to Sophia?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t care?”

  I missed a beat.

  “Don’t even answer,” she said.

  “Why ask?”

  “OK. Go.”

  It came out as “Oh-way, whoa” as she had stuffed another piece in her mouth.

  I said, “Do you want the version with the disclaimer that I do care? I care for the bird that goes without food and the fish that gets swept into the air, and I certainly care a hell of a lot more about Sophia Escobar. But it’s her web and a tenuous one at that—or do you want the one word answer at the end?”

  “Spare me the soliloquy.”

  “No.”

  She put down her slice of pie and swiped a napkin across her mouth. It had gotten dark outside and two girls in summer dresses were at the counter discussing an app on their phone. Kathleen blew out her breath, made a fist with her right hand, and leaned forward. In a slow motion she brought her fist up under my left eye. When it touched my skin, she pushed in and rotated it back and forth as if she was trying to drill it into my face.

  She relaxed into her chair and her fist metamorphosed back into her hand.

  “Feel better?” I asked.

  “Not bad,” she said in a singsong voice. “Maybe you Neanderthals are on to something.”

  “It’s still no.”

  “Any way you can make it easier for her?” she asked.

  “I’ll do what I can. Not a word, you know.”

  “I realize that.”

  “She’ll need you more, later.”

  She didn’t respond to that, and I got the feeling that she resented me telling her what she already knew about supporting a friend. Just a feeling—but I know I’m right. I didn’t mention that with a little luck, my plan, once in motion, wouldn’t involve me. No need to get her hopes, or mine, up. Things that are up often fall down.

  Eventually Sophia would need to know. Kathleen could not carry the weight of my involvement and forever withhold that from her. That was a shadowy foundation for a friendship. I d
idn’t know how deep their relationship would go, but when together, they were two happy girls.

  We drove back to her house. As we went over the bridge to her island, I glanced out the side window to view the lights of my house from across the bay. It was in the shadow of the pink hotel that rose behind it against the black sky.

  “You OK?” I asked when I pulled into her driveway.

  “‘OK,’ I believe you once said, was for losers.” She leaned in and gave me a kiss. “Take care of Sophia. She’s a good person.”

  She was out of the truck before I had a chance to reply.

  I looked at the digital clock on my dashboard. Kittredge, according to the plan he and I discussed—meaning he listened and I dictated—should have talked to Mendis long ago. Mendis squeezes Escobar and Escobar supplicates me to relieve him of the letter.

  From twelve floors up it all looked nice and neat. But I knew down where the breeze unpredictably changed directions, and life fought to live and killed to see another day, nothing was ever nice and neat.

  CHAPTER 14

  Escobar

  “Who did you go out with today?” Escobar asked Sophia.

  “Kathleen, the woman we met at Kittredge’s bash the other night. She’s delightful, and I feel as if I’ve known her my whole life. You should have a friend like that, Raydel.”

  “Men don’t have friends, they have associates. Who the hell is that guy she was with?”

  “Jake?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “She didn’t talk about him much. We spent the day picking out tiles and colors for her condo. Absolutely breathtaking views. She’s going to have a real library—it faces east, just incredible feng shui. Oh, and she’s going to help me with the Christmas fund-raiser. We’ll hit a hundred thousand. I know I can do it with her help.” She took a strand of her hair and rolled it in her fingers.

  They were enjoying early evening cocktails under the red umbrella, something they rarely did anymore, but Sophia had insisted. Escobar thought of Natalie and wondered how it could only have been two days ago that she was there. He wanted a cigar so bad he could feel spit foaming in his mouth.

  “We should have them over some time for dinner,” Sophia said and twisted her hair again with her fingers.

  “Who?” Escobar took a sip of his Cuban Manhattan. His version was not much more than dark rum, dry vermouth, and ice.

  “Try listening, Raydel, it’s the latest thing. Kathleen and Jake. They’re nice people and they live right here. I’m going to extend an invitation.”

  “Great idea, Sophia, see if they can do it soon.” He wanted to get closer to Travis; the man was clearly threatening him and had knowledge of his IRS issues. He wondered if he was tied to the menacing phone call, almost had to be. What the hell, he thought, if he wants the letter, I’ll tell him to bring seven million. Little harder to say “no” in person. Maybe that’s what this is all about. Government-style negotiations.

  “Really? It’s OK? I’ll see if tomorrow works.”

  Her face had brightened like the morning sun after a cloudy day when she replied. He hadn’t seen that for a while and wondered if it was because of him. “Sure, tomorrow’s fine,” he said and tried to sound appreciative of her efforts, but he knew it came out flat.

  “I’ll give her a call. Let’s go out to dinner tonight. I forgot how nice downtown is,” Sophia said.

  “Not tonight. Henriques and Mendis are coming over. Be here any minute.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? It’s already getting late.”

  “Last-minute thing.”

  He saw the disappointment in her eyes, and for the briefest moment Escobar felt bad for his wife, but he had other issues. His headache had been growing all day, ever since Mendis called out of the blue and said he’d be dropping by that evening. No one from the east coast of Florida dropped by the west coast. It was easier to fly to London. Besides, Escobar knew that Walter Mendis didn’t make house calls.

  “Maybe some other time,” he added. And then, because he needed to know what Travis wanted, he continued, “Don’t forget about dinner with your new friend. Tomorrow should be fine. You always keep the house looking great, Sophia, let’s just have them over here.”

  Sophia straightened and Escobar recalled when they first met. How he had fantasized about what it would be like to be greeted every day with her energy and positive disposition. Sophia simply never met a day that didn’t deserve a smile. As he caught his wife’s dark hair shine in the dying sun’s rays that snuck under the edge of the umbrella, Raydel Escobar thought he’d take a thousand arrows before he caused her to shed one tear.

  “I’ll see if they’re available. Why is Mendis coming over at this hour? Do you need anything from him?” She shifted her weight.

  “He’s in town tonight for business. I don’t imagine he’ll stay long. I told Olivia. I’m sure she’ll have something prepared.”

  Sophia looked as if she was going to talk, but remained silent. Then she said, “She’s been quiet the past couple of days. Were there any problems when I was gone?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “I just wondered. She seems so withdrawn. Elvis didn’t say anything to her, did he?”

  “He treats her fine. Maybe it’s her grandkid. That screwup’s always getting into some sort of trouble.”

  “Don’t talk like that. She’s done a great job and it’s been a real chore with him.”

  “I’ve got enough jobs to worry about,” he said and stood up. “I’m going to the study to collect some notes for the meeting.” He took three steps before her words stopped him.

  “My Midnight Passion was the wrong way.” It popped out like a cork finally free of a champagne bottle. She said it staring at the space he used to be in, and the words, with no one claiming them, sat in his empty chair like a teenage daughter who just announced she was pregnant and didn’t know who the father was but it didn’t really matter because everyone knew things would never go back to how they were.

  “What?” He caught himself in time and only partially rotated back to face his wife.

  “Lipstick. I always keep the points in the same direction in the tray, but my favorite, Midnight Passion, was facing the wrong direction. I’d never do that.” Sophia sat like a rock. Hands on the table. All settled now.

  “For Christ sake, Sophia. I don’t remember where I put half my stuff two minutes after I drop it.” He’d never known three steps to create such a gulf. He quickly walked away from her, but from the corner of his eye he saw her still looking at his vacant seat, at what used to be.

  Unbelievable, he thought. Was Natalie trying to screw things up? No more chances. That’s the last time she would ever see the bedroom. He had gotten five text messages from her that day and replied only to the first one. She wanted to know what he was doing, where he was going. That broad wanted to be in every corner of his life. Too much shit coming down on me, he thought.

  “Paulo, you were right. Raydel, you got one hell of a place here,” Walter Mendis said.

  Mendis stood at the edge of the pool with no edge. He looked out over the motionless mangroves of the west coast of Florida and to the waters of the Gulf of Mexico where the edge was a sky it never met.

  Paulo Henriques stood next to Mendis. Escobar would have sworn they both went to the same damn tailor on the same day. Mendis was shorter and his shaved scalp gave away only to a glimpse of fuzz on both sides of his head. Escobar noted, as he had in previous meetings, that Mendis tilted forward, like a tree pressing the wind. His blue sports coat jacket was draped over his left arm, and Escobar wondered if he slept in the thing. They had flown in from Palm Beach, and Gibbons, Mendis’s muscle, drove when they pulled around the circular drive in the black Mercedes S550 sedan. Escobar didn’t know how the car got over from Palm Beach or if Mendis was renting it. He wasn’t going to ask. He was more concerned about the reason for the sudden visit.

  Mendis turned around from the Gulf in a dismissive manner.
“How was the fund-raiser for Kittredge?”

  “We got fifty-four people,” Escobar said. “He’s beating the path pretty hard.”

  “He’s not one to circumvent the basics,” Mendis said. “He knows you’ve got to hit these things.”

  “Well, he’s swinging away,” Henriques said. “He’s spending more time raising money than governing. But he’s our man—”

  Mendis cut in, “He’s our man and his commitment to us makes wedding vows look cheap.”

  Escobar said, “Let’s have a seat. Olivia’s going to bring out some fish tacos.”

  They sat under the red umbrella, once blocking the sun and soon to be blocking the stars. Escobar took a seat that faced the water and then thought that perhaps he should have allowed Mendis to sit first. Screw him, he thought, I’m not sacrificing my view for him.

  “Kittredge called me this morning,” Mendis said as Olivia placed water with lemon wedges in front of each man. “Said your event was first class. Best music he’s heard in years.”

  “How do you know so much about that stuff?” Henriques asked.

  “Not ‘how,’ but ‘why,’” Mendis said. “Don’t get me wrong, Raydel, it’s classic sound book, but where did you run into it? Shit hasn’t been on the radio since the day you were crapping your diapers.”

  “I played it in the clubs all the time, set the mood, set us apart, you know? After a while I just got to like it. Patrons expected it and I never questioned it much.” His father played it in his bar every day, but no way was Escobar sharing that with these threads.

  Not with anyone.

  “What’s gracing us now?” Mendis asked.

  “The Association.”

  “The what?”

  “Association. That’s the name of the group.”

  Mendis leaned in across the table. “I like that. Association. That’s what we got here. An association. You know, Raydel, bad news has good legs. Kittredge had an interesting visitor in his office, real fast legs, he said, and he’s worried that our association is slipping.”

  Escobar thought of a contentious remark but held back. Olivia placed a plate of fish tacos in front of each man. A stainless steel rack on the plate held three tacos in individual slots. Each taco sported three wedges of tomato atop a crown of lettuce with a palmetto olive between them. How fucking long did she spend on that? He said in a hard voice that surprised him, “Have Elvis make us another round of drinks.”