The Ascent(12)

Suddenly I saw elation fill her eyes. She all but clasped her hands over her chest. “Tell me this means you’re sculpting again.”

I went into the kitchen and poured Maker’s Mark into two tumblers, then added some sour mix. I stirred both drinks with my finger.

“An old friend of mine mailed it to me,” I said finally, returning and handing Marta her drink.

“I can’t tell when you’re being serious anymore.”

“I’m serious. It showed up two days ago.”

“Two days?” She looked incredulous. “And it’s just been … sitting here?”

“It’s a giant slab of rock. I’m not really sure where to put something like that in a tiny apartment without f*cking with the feng shui.”

“What kind of friend mails you a hunk of rock?”

“One who’s both independently wealthy and overly eccentric.”

“Interesting.” She grinned. “Is he single?”

“He’s not your type.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s probably off in Uganda for the next six months.”

She rolled her shoulders and sipped her drink. “You know I don’t like to be smothered.”

I stood beside her, studying the slab of stone. “I just need to figure out how to get this thing out of here.”

“I’m assuming it was sent to you for a reason.”

“Is that right?”

“So you’d start working again.”

“My sabbatical is over in the spring.”

“Not that work.”

Still gazing at the stone, I said, “Maybe I’ll call the college art department, have them pick it up. I might get tenured for a donation this big.”

But by the following Wednesday, with midweek ennui settling around me, I found myself seated on a stool before the column of granite. I’d liberated it from its crate. Together, we stood in the center of the living room, a crystalline frost building up against the windows, my hammer in one hand, my chisel in the other. I sat staring at it, locked in unspoken dialogue with this ridiculous chunk of rock in my living room. The top of the column was buffed flat and smooth. It could be a podium for a potted plant, an art deco stand for a decorative vase. It could be anything, and I needn’t touch it at all. Not at all.

With a single stroke, I hammered off one corner of the slab. A spark flickered, and the triangular cut dropped to the floor and bounded under the sofa. The muscles in my arms felt weak; the

strike, which by no means had been forceful, reverberated through the marrow in my bones. I laughed.

2



I WAS TWENTY-SIX AND ON MY HONEYMOON WITH

Hannah in San Juan when I met Andrew Trumbauer. It was our third day on the beach, and Hannah and I had just finished snorkeling and were laid out on towels in the sand when Andrew came out of the sea. I paid him no attention at first, but as he drew nearer, I saw something akin to a skeletal smile break across his face, causing the corners of his mouth to push his cheeks into sharp points. There was something radiant about him, a confidence in his walk. He headed directly for us.

“Holy shit,” said Hannah. I thought I could see this strange man mouthing the same words at the same time, as if Hannah were providing the soundtrack of his voice. “I don’t believe it.”

Andrew’s shadow fell across us, and he dripped water on my legs. He carried a mesh bag of dog biscuits used to feed the fish when snorkeling, and I couldn’t turn away from his grin. His teeth looked preternaturally bright.

“Andrew!” Hannah shouted, bouncing off the towel and into his arms. She was laughing hysterically as she kissed him quickly on the cheek—a jab, really—and beamed over at me. “This is totally insane!”

“Indeed,” I commented, not knowing what I was required to say. “My head is spinning.”

“Andrew, this is Tim, my boyfriend.”

“Husband,” I corrected.

“Oh!” She laughed. She looked so beautiful and dark. It was before she cut her hair short, so she was very feminine. “Oh, God, we were just married a few days ago. I’m still not straight with anything.”

“I’m Andrew Trumbauer,” he said, grinning an awkward grin and driving his knees into the sand so he could shake my hand. His pale chest glistened. A string of cobalt-colored lapis hung around his neck.

“Tim Overleigh.”

“Andrew and I went to college together,” said Hannah.

“Good old JMU. I was the loser friend all the pretty girls took pity on,” Andrew said, still grinning.

“Not all of them,” said Hannah. “Most hated you.”

And then Andrew did something that caused my testicles to crawl up into the cavity of my pelvis: he winked at me.

“So true,” he said. “Most everyone hated me.”

Later that night we all had drinks together at a local dive, and Andrew waited for Hannah to stagger off to the restroom before practically crawling into my ear and whispering, “I’ve got something I want you to try.”

“What’s that?” I was expecting him to offer to sell me weed, speed, pain pills—whatever the going pharmaceutical trend on the island.

“Flying,” he said, which only reinforced my expectation. “You up for flying?”