Wanting Rita (38 page)

I called the airlines as I hurried home to pack. This new thought brought an urgency of action, as if all the time wasted and all the mourning and regret had suddenly been defeated by the cheerful blows of expectation and possibility.

There were two flights that evening and both were out of Newark, New Jersey: one was at 7:05, a non-stop that arrived at 9:25pm, Phoenix time. Then I’d have to drive the 125 miles to Sedona, another 2 hours. That plane would be difficult to make since it was already 5:20.

The next left at 8:39, with a change in Las Vegas. I’d arrive at one in the morning. I booked the 7:05, hailed a cab and went directly to Newark.

In heavy, erratic traffic, I called and reserved a rental car in Phoenix. I pounded the seat several times, hollering at the cab driver to hurry. He finally whirled, with broiling eyes, and told me to shut up or get out.

I made the 7:05 flight by minutes. During the endless 5½ hour flight, I tried to sleep; tried to find some relaxation technique that would free me, even for a minute, from the blistering worry of seeing Rita. Was I doing the right thing? Would Rita really want to see me again? I’d tell her I just happened to be in the area and thought I’d stop by and say hello. What was wrong with that? Nothing. Just two old friends saying hello. No, nothing wrong with that at all. What if she was with another man? I pushed the thought out of my head and ordered a scotch on the rocks. I watched a silly romantic movie. I talked politics with the middle-aged woman next to me. I finally tugged out my iPod and listened to Bach’s
Well Tempered Clavier Book II
, because it had been a consistent favorite of my father’s and I’d recalled it sliding in and out of my consciousness, back in those long-ago high school days, when I was dating Rita.

“This is a mature work of art, Alan,” Dad had said that night, before my final date with Rita. “When you hear this music you feel like you can rise up into heaven. What do you think about it? Do you like the music?”

I was distracted by Rita, then, just as I was now. “Yeah, it’s okay. It’s kind of moody and nervous,” I said.

“They’re revelations, Alan. Little musical poems of revelation. If you listen with your whole body, not just your ears, but your entire being, you’ll feel the power of them.”

When we were an hour from Phoenix, I shut my eyes and listened to Bach. I ached for Rita. I wanted Rita.

I drove through a profound darkness along I-17, reproaching myself for not coming sooner. I should have shown up at the restaurant where Rita worked, just as I had at Jack’s. I should have written some silly, vacuous story and presented it to her for her comments, just as I had intended to do on the beach in Barbados those many months ago. It would have worked. Rita wouldn’t have sent me away. She would have chastised me, perhaps, scolded me with her eyes; maybe even ignored me for a while, before giving me an affectionate glance, but she wouldn’t have turned me down. We would have exchanged enigmatic smiles and that would have been the end of it. We could have begun where we’d left off. We could have slapped all our cards onto the table, discussed the complexities, laughed at our past mistakes and adolescent fears; exposed the dinosaur emotions that had driven the wedge between us. I should have come. I should have come a long time ago!

I pulled into the parking lot of a long dark motel, under a yellow neon light that said VACANCY. Weary and jumpy, I hardly noticed the dry desert air. I woke up the owner, a brown sleepy man in his 50’s, with a silver pony tail and frank dark eyes. He wore loose shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt. He swiped my credit card, slid me a key across the counter and grunted a good night.

The room was basic and stuffy, with desert decor. I turned on the air-conditioner, showered, brushed my teeth and dropped into the double bed. I laced my hands behind my head and stared into thick darkness, hearing only the low hum of the air-conditioner. Rita was close. So very close. As the thought reverberated, like a mantra, I dissolved into a restless sleep.

The next morning, I emerged from my little room into the cool morning air, standing in rapt awe at the desert landscape. I saw the expansive iron-rich reddish soil, blooming desert flowers and infinite blue sky. I stared into the brilliant day, toward the towering distant fiery rock formations, following red airplanes gliding lazily over them. All of it made me want to breathe deeply, and I did.

I ate breakfast at a little red and yellow roadside restaurant. I nudged at the sunny-side eggs, nibbled toast and drank two cups of black coffee. I noticed patrons wearing cowboy hats and boots, with the occasional tourist like me, looking strangely out of place and time, like we were actors who’d accidentally stumbled in from a different movie.

I drove into Sedona, with a little boy’s searching wonder. It was smaller than I’d anticipated. I drifted through heavier traffic than I’d expected, past a variety of shops, and gawked with surprise at the Sedona Public Library, a rather ostentatious A-frame building.

I parked on the street, pushed out, surveying the area, sheepishly, as if I were already under Rita’s scrutiny. The lively dry wind whipped at my hair; I fingered it back in place, as I wandered uneasily along the downtown strip. It was touristy and bustling, with quality shops mixed in with the trinket stores. Shuffling through an airy hotel lobby, I saw brochures advertising an early-morning hot-air balloon ride that included a traditional champagne breakfast. There was a brochure for Pink Jeep Tours, hawking a fascinating ride through the desert.

Back in my car, I studied the map and drove across the Oak Creek Bridge toward the Tlaquepaque Arts and Craft Village (pronounced Tla-keh-pah-keh.) My guide book said that it meant the “best of everything.” I found it nestled beneath sycamores on the banks of Oak Creek. According to Rita’s e-mail, this was where she worked, in a Native American jewelry store.

I parked and sat in the car for a few minutes, screwing up the courage to face the wonderful and dreadful possibilities.

I ambled through several courtyards, with their vine-covered stucco walls, cobble-stoned walkways and impressive arched entryways, viewing ceramics, blown glass creations and contemporary Southwestern art and weavings.

With unsteady and hopeful eyes, I entered art galleries, jewelry stores and restaurants, angling around a stream of probing tourists, looking for Rita, behind counters, in the courtyards, near the splashing fountain.

I saw contemporary jewelry and designer causal wear in leathers and silks. I smelled the sweet and pungent spices of Mexican cuisine. A wedding party exited the little Chapel and mild Chapel bells drew smiles and curious eyes.

I didn’t see Rita. I don’t think I expected to. It was nearly 11 o’clock. I took a chance and entered a shop that offered Native American jewelry. I shoved my hands deep into my jeans pockets and hunched my shoulders as I perused the sculptures, pottery, and turquoise and gold masks. As I eased by the glass jewelry case, I glanced up into the clear brown eyes of a Native American man, who wore a deep purple silk shirt and a cowboy hat. He smiled warmly, his brown weathered face suggesting a calm strength.

“Very nice,” I said, quietly.

He nodded.

I drew a sudden breath. “Does Rita work here?”

He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

His voice was a single struck bass string. “Yes.”

My pulse quickened. “Is she working today?”

“She’ll be here at 12 o’clock.”

“…Good. Thank you.”

I took a business card before I left.

I sat in the Secret Garden Café, sipping an espresso, overhearing a couple from Wisconsin talking excitedly about Sedona’s famous energy vortex.

“The Airport Vortex is supposed to be a weaker vortex, but I really felt more there than at some of the others,” the blond, in-her-20’s-something, said.

“Yeah, me too,” her tattooed-on-both-arms boyfriend said. “It was like a little positive sensation or something.”

“Yeah, yeah!”

“And like, a little tingly.”

“Yeah. I felt that too! And I just felt happy.”

“Yeah, it was cool.”

“So we’ve got to go to Rachel’s Knoll today,” the girl said. “It’s supposed to be holy ground.”

“Yeah. I should bring my parents there,” he said. “It’s supposed to be like this great place to help with relationship problems. According to this guy I talked to, it really works. You like just sit up there and it really helps get your head together.”

My ears perked up.

“Your parents wouldn’t go,” she said, gloomily.

“No. No way. They just want to stay home and fight all the time,” he agreed.

I glanced at my watch every five minutes and tried not to look solemn or worried that Rita was going to ignore me or tell me to go back home. I kept my eyes low on my empty cup of espresso and waited, opening my hand and then closing it into a tight fist. Finally, fighting boiling nerves, I stood and stepped to the entrance, away from the gaiety of sunlight.

At ten minutes to 12, I saw her! There was no mistaking that languid walk, the easy swing of her hips; her long golden hair, tied into a pony tail, swinging jauntily from side to side. I nearly shot out the door as she drifted by—only 20 feet away! She wore jeans, cowboy boots and a loose fitting white cotton blouse, that rippled in the gentle wind. When she turned toward me, but didn’t see me, I was startled, breathless. I saw a pastoral quality of peace on her lovely face; I recognized the symptoms of happiness in her eyes.

When she was gone, I went back inside and settled back down into my chair, a mass of nerves. Heat rushed to my face. The Rita Fever had returned.

Ten minutes passed before I reached for the red and white colored business card and my cell phone. I punched in the number and waited, mouth tight, throat dry.

“Red Rock Canyon Selections, this is Rita, can I help you?” Her voice was throaty and sultry.

I croaked out a sound, but no coherent word.

“Hello?” Rita said.

“Ah…yes, it’s…ah, Alan.”

Dead silence.

“Rita…it’s Alan James.” I sprinted out the words, in case she was going to hang up. “I was at a medical conference in Phoenix and well… you know, I was close, so I thought maybe I’d stop by and say hello or something.”

I heard her sigh into the receiver. It made a little whoosh sound. “Are you in Phoenix now?” she asked, cautiously.

“Well, actually, no. I’m in Sedona.”

“Where in Sedona?”

“Well…ah…I’m actually sitting in the Secret Garden Café.”

More silence. I pictured her standing erect, chewing on her lower lip as she considered her options. “I have to work until 5 o’clock.”

“Okay…Sure. I understand. I just thought that…”

She interrupted. “I’ll be right there.”

I stared, astonished and elated, after she’d hung up. I stood, paced the room, and ordered another espresso, just so I’d look relaxed and casual. I sat and waited, foot tapping the floor, mind disturbed, emotions alarmed; heart pumping wary celebration.

It was ten minutes before she arrived—actually twelve minutes. She appeared in the doorway and searched. I swallowed, smiled briefly under her lowering tentative gaze.

She came toward me, slowly. I stood, shaking a little.

She shook her head, pointing at the half drained cup of espresso. “How many of those have you had, Alan James?”

“Oh…not too many. Just this one…well, no, this is the second.”

She sat down opposite me. I sat. “Want anything?” I asked, in a thin struggling voice.

“No.”

She studied me carefully.

I said, “Nice place…I mean, this whole area…the whole town. I like it.”

“When was your conference?”

“It was…oh, for a couple of days.”

“What was it on?”

“The usual things…you know health and medicine. I mean, what else could a medical conference be on?”

She let out a little laugh. “Alan James, you didn’t go to a medical conference in Phoenix, did you?”

I folded my arms, looking toward the pastry stand. “...No.”

With this confession came a relaxation of tension. I looked directly at her and spoke quietly. “I came to see you.”

She folded her arms and crossed her leg. It bounced a little. “And what do you think?”

“I think you look wonderful.”

She smiled her appreciation. “Have I changed?”

“You seem calmer.”

“I am.”

“You’re still beautiful.”

Her eyes held me. “You always thought so.”

“Have you been writing?” I asked.

“No, not really. Just a few poems for awhile, and then nothing. I think I’m done with all that. It brings back bad memories. I don’t want any more bad memories.”

“How’s your mother?”

“Good…better. I call her pretty regularly.”

“How’s your school coming?”

“Coming along.”

“Good… real good, Rita.”

“And how are you, Alan James? Is the divorce final?”

“Oh, yes. Long ago. Nicole’s remarried and, I think, has had a baby by now.”