Benita was for the moment speechless. “Angel. I didn’t know! I didn’t know any of that.”
“Well, of course not. You had enough to worry about. I told Carlos when he was ready to leave home, he could do what he pleased, but for then he had to shut up and behave or I would definitely talk you into going with me and leaving the two of them on their own. He knew where the groceries came from, and he did settle down and cut out the worst of the stuff.
“Anyhow, he’s grown up now. He’ll be twenty-two. Whatever he thinks, it’s time you stopped enabling other people so you can enable yourself.”
“It’s going to be a little complicated. Your father has mortgaged the house, and the bank is going to foreclose. He’ll expect me to step in and stop it, and when he knows I’m not going to do it, he’s going to get belligerent. It’ll be easier for everyone if you just don’t know where I am.”
“Are you going to get a divorce?” her daughter asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not even thinking about that now.”
“I say go for it. If you want to tell Carlos, I’ll ask him to stick around here tomorrow night. Call around eight, our time. Okay?”
Eight their time would be eleven where she was, but she didn’t mention that. All she could think of was what Angelica had gone through. And she’d been only a child!
She threw herself down on the bed, sprawled every which-a-way like cooked spaghetti, muscles letting go all at once, mind switching from Angelica to the bookstore, back to General Wallace, and then to the creature that had called itself an athyco. Whatever did they really look like? And how could they have gone out of her mind even for a moment? So strange, so wonderful, yet hard to think about. Well, strangeness was hard to think about. Wonder grazes you like a bullet, it zips by and is gone, and all you really perceive is the zing as it goes past, or maybe the pain if it comes too close. It does no good to search for whatever it was, for it never lodges anywhere you can get a good look at it. The truly strange has no hooks of familiarity that one can catch hold of.
It had happened, though. It wasn’t a dream. She really had met weird aliens, Chiddy and Vess, who had done her a good turn, who had to have done it, because it was the only way she could explain how well she’d been doing. She hadn’t cried once. She hadn’t lain awake, worried over what she might have done or said wrong. She hadn’t been concerned about running back home because it was her duty. Somehow, it seemed, Chiddy and Vess had unquirked her.
Senator Byron Morse—TUESDAY
Senator Byron Morse, R-New Mexico, edged his just-waxed black Lexus into the too-narrow space Lupe had left him beside her red convertible, cursing mildly under his breath. Squeezing out of the car, he tugged his suit coat into alignment, picked up his briefcase, gently kneed the door shut and went through into the back hall, which throbbed at him.
Lupe was definitely home. The house boomed distantly, mute to melody but attentive to the beat. Wherever Lupe was, basses thumped, brasses blared, drums roared and rhythm filled the silence. Which was okay with the senator. He’d married her for her sociability, her elegance, her sleek body and fantastic hair. She made him look good, and since he’d soundproofed his den, he didn’t have to listen to the racket.
She saw him coming up the stairs. “Hi, By,” she called, feet moving in time to the music, hips swaying. “Home early!”
He dropped the jacket over the banister and made a twisting motion with his fingers.
“Oh, hey, fine. Just a minute!” And she was off down the hall, doing an exhibition number. The woman was jointless as a snake, and the sight warmed him, though only slightly. He couldn’t afford the time at the moment, and quickies only made Lupe resentful.
The music softened, the beat relented, she came back, walking. “Janet, she call you.”